


Rest Now (Fighting is Tomorrow's Worry)

by BigBellRings



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-John Wick: Chapter 2 (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-09-06 02:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16823170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigBellRings/pseuds/BigBellRings
Summary: “No. I just got this in the mail.” John hands Santino an envelope with an address based near Oklahoma and a plethora of stamps. There are some wrinkles near the corners as if someone tampered with it indecisively. The handwriting is illegible, which makes the sender anonymous to Santino.“You haven’t opened it yet?” Santino wonders.(John receives a letter from his sister with a reason to come back to Oklahoma and, more importantly, his family.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first official John Wick contribution to this community! I absolutely love this group; everyone is creative and chivalrous with a touch of insanely talented. I hope this fanfiction provides an addition to this amazing community where everyone is incredibly welcoming.
> 
> A small disclaimer before the fanfiction starts; I don't consider myself a professional writer, nor do I think my writing skills are perfect, especially when I write in present tense. Because of this, I would appreciate any feedback, whether it is in comments, kudos, and/or bookmarks!

“You seem preoccupied.” Santino is blunt with his approach. He runs his hand coarsely through the fur of John’s pitbull, light grumbles emerging from the breed’s throat. She slowly turns onto her back, allowing Santino easier access to her stomach. He gives a disapproving hum, knowing her fur will shed all over the floorboards.

“Sorry,” John replies, voice still heavy from sleep. Santino’s legs are rested on his thighs, forcing him to stay seated on the couch unless he wanted to be deprived of the pleasant warmth. The Italian stops petting the pitbull; a growl of annoyance being heard before a yawn.

“What’s wrong? Did Ares come by last night?” Santino asks. Ever since he and John’s relationship began, Ares found it her personal mission to visit the couple whenever she could. The first occasions were terrifying, considering she had maneuvered herself into the living room through the backyard, uninvited. The night ended with Ares having a key to the house and a broken oven.

“No. I just got this in the mail.” John hands Santino an envelope with an address based near Oklahoma and a plethora of stamps. There are some wrinkles near the corners as if someone tampered with it indecisively. The handwriting is illegible, which makes the sender anonymous to Santino.

“You haven’t opened it yet?” Santino wonders.

“I didn’t want to.” John shrugs, looking at the newly-planted tree in the backyard through the glass screen door. The contours of his face are brightened by the sun; the endings of his eyelashes and stranded locks transform from a brunette to a golden shade, like the autumn leaves. Santino finds himself entranced momentarily, though adverts his gaze back towards the envelope.

Santino opens it without hesitation. The letter is stained by a ring of coffee alongside rainwater, but it does not interfere with the actual words. John hears the soft rustling and the Italian holding the letter in his left hand. His other hand is scratching underneath the pitbull’s jaw, a spot that makes the hound move closer to the man. John watches as Santino’s eyebrows furrow in steady contemplation. The edges of the Marine’s thin lips move upwards at the sight, realizing that Santino cannot read his sister’s unreadable handwriting. Dolores always had odd tendencies, like connecting words by coiled lines like the wire of a rotary phone, or making the dots above her i’s too long. 

“You have a sister?” Santino’s eyes widen in hurt realization at the unknown fact. John hadn’t told Santino anything about his close relatives aside from the fact that he didn’t necessarily keep in contact with them. John nods, and the tension in Santino’s features disappear. It is replaced by an excitement at the prospect of meeting another Wick.

“She lives with my Mom back in Oklahoma,” John informs, “but I haven’t spoken to her in a few months.” Santino is about to interrogate John, though decides upon the opposite in favour of reading the letter more in-depth. His lips move as he repeats the final paragraphs (Dolores is also apparently quite a talkative woman), and once he is done, utters a single sentence.

“It’s an invite for your mother’s birthday. Dolores seems really excited about it.” Santino says, softly placing the letter onto the coffee table before him. John purses his lips, clearly disliking the thought of meeting his family in person. Santino brushes his locks behind his right ear, causing his commanding eyes to become visible. He asks John if they could go as Dolores suggested happily; a week in advance.

John weighs the options; go and endure the immense pain of being with his family in his hometown, or continue living with Santino and broken familial relationships. He glances at Santino, who is weakly rubbing the pitbull’s fur in nervous anticipation. The cotton of his shirt is barely above his waistline, showing the smooth skin underneath that John knows is rougher than it appears. He opens his mouth, pausing for a moment as he thinks about his next words carefully.

“Fine.” He answers, realizing the trip would be worth it once Santino gives a smile, eyes squinted faintly due to his cheeks. The Italian bends his knees as he leans closer to John, abandoning the pitbull. The dog whines and uses her strength to jump onto the couch, nudging Santino’s back to get his attention. When she sees Santino contently kissing John, she promptly leaves for her food bowl, obviously disgruntled.

*  
“Yes, he does,” Santino confirms to Ares. John had left to speak with Aurelio about a strange flaw his Mustang had (Santino could barely understand it- he simply begged John to stay for a minute longer) meaning that Ares could come inside the house undetected. Santino tried persuading her that John would not harm him, though Ares was a woman of inertia and stubbornness.

She signs her concerns about the trip and asks if Santino requires a guard.

“If I bring one, John’s family might be intimidated,” Santino sips from his coffee mug, “besides, you don't have the most pleasant of faces.” Ares shoves his shoulder, causing the caffeine to spill over the brim. Santino curses quickly at the mess on the table, causing Ares to smile at the chaos. As Santino wipes the table, Ares asks if preparations are already made.

“Not yet. He still needs to write her back,” Santino glances at the opened letter on the kitchen counter, “but certainly someone at The Continental would be willing to look after her.” Ares raises her eyebrows, questioning of whom the pronoun was directed to. However, she is answered when John’s pitbull waddles into the room, uncut nails tapping on the tiles in an oblivious rhythm.

Ares emotionally looks downwards at the pitbull who secures a place beside the woman’s leg. She rubs her head on the black pants, grey furs becoming visibly attached. Ares’ lips curl upwards in a faint smile as she pets the pitbull. Santino isn’t surprised; the hound constantly manages to soften anybody within her vicinity.

“Of course, I still have yet to know how John wants to introduce me to his family.” Santino looks into his coffee and gently presses a finger just below its surface. Ares understands Santino’s concerns and changes the subject to lighten the mood.

She claims she can take care of the pitbull, considering she has large enough quarters that she occupies alone. Santino gives her a surprised expression, much to her confusion.

“I never assumed you liked dogs.” Santino smiles. Ares looks away from the pitbull and informs that she does, despite their tendencies to defecate at an alarming rate. Santino laughs at that, then asks if Ares wanted another tea bag. She responds with another question herself and inquires if Santino did any research on John’s relatives.

“The only person I could find online was Dolores, though her account is private to the public. Other than that, I doubt John kept anything from his childhood,” Santino explains, causing Ares to give an irritated expression before signing her answer, “I wouldn’t. John trusts me. To do so would be an invasion of privacy.” Ares claims to search through the attic would not negate any sanctity. Besides, John still kept photographs of Helen, meaning there must be some chance that he kept pictures of his family.

Santino bites his bottom lip as he considers Ares’ idea. A minute later, the two friends are climbing upwards into the dusty, vacant attic. Santino has only been inside the area twice; once, when he had asked to see what Helen’s appearance was (she was a beautiful woman with a softer smile than the women in Santino’s life), and another when John and him were storing away their older clothes that were too ragged to continue wearing.

The attic is messier than how he perceived it would have been. There is an abundance of cobwebs, much to Ares’ displeasure, and older, uncommon items such as a broken typewriter and a few scratched journals from The Continental’s earlier formative years. Santino moves past them, a hand protectively covering his eyes. He travels deeper until he reaches the interior wall of the roof where several books are stacked neatly. Santino recognizes them as photo albums and opens each. They are mostly filled with photographs of Helen and mementos, such as the stubs of movie tickets and wrinkled napkins from restaurants. Santino places the books onto the ground when he is finished with them and looks over to Ares.

She is holding a frame with a single picture. Santino walks towards her and peers at the image wherein two teenagers are clasped together happily. By the brunette locks and identical smiles, Santino assumes the pair is of John and Dolores. The girl looks almost identical to John if one were to overlook her tanned skin tone and smaller eyes. She has an arm over John’s shoulder that forces the male to bend downwards due to the pressure. He seems happy, though. Santino stares at the picture with a downturned sadness.

Ares’ slender fingers work rapidly as she spells out Dolores’s name with a comment on her closeness with John. Before Santino can respond, she hands him the picture and replaces it with a thick, leather binder. Ares informs Santino that the picture is from the said binder and proceeds to open it. There are a couple dozen other photographs, each yellowed with age. The oldest the siblings appear is in a single photo near the beginning of the album, wherein Dolores and John are sitting alongside a river with blissed faces.

*  
“Aurelio thinks a vacation will help me relax,” John says that night in the kitchen. Santino is refilling the pitbull’s food since John is always too generous. The letter on the counter had been responded to; Santino even made it priority, much to John’s dismay. 

“Aurelio is right,” Santino replies as he washes his hands. He brushes the water off on the nearby towel and leans over the counter where John is seated. The American seems tense, which Santino despises. He always finds John more handsome when the latter is calm; eyelids drooped lowly and breaths light. Santino reaches outwards and cups John’s cheek, causing the man’s eyes to shut with a tamed assurance that he is safe, “sei bello.”

“Anche tu.” John places his hand over Santino’s and lets their fingers intertwine.

“You might enjoy Oklahoma, John. Perhaps you and Dolores can reconnect better?” Santino whispers to keep the tranquil silence of the moment. John nods, clearly too enveloped with the warmth of Santino’s hand. It is the times like these, when John is subdued to languid movements and Santino’s heart beats wildly, that the Italian knows everything is okay and nothing will harm him. He presses his lips to John’s forehead, prolonging the kiss by a second.

“What should I even say when I meet her again?” John sighs, a sudden exhaustion slowly creeping towards him.

“If you were able to gain Father’s blessing, I’m positive you can think of something.” A small blush creeps behind Santino’s ears when John laughs. He considers the sound a thing of beauty; one he wants to hear more often than he is allotted to. John pushes himself away from the counter and goes towards Santino, considering the counter too far of a gap. He uses his strength to hoist Santino onto the marble, making them approximately equal in terms of height. Before the two can continue, John’s phone rings. Santino curses underneath his breath and falls backwards, his arms cast over his umber eyes in annoyance. John apologizes and goes over to the phone, answering it with a small reluctance.

“Hello? I think I called the right number,” A female voice speaks with slight nervousness. She is loud enough that Santino can hear her words, “I’m sorry for asking, but, did you send me a letter in the mail recently? There was a number on the envelope, and maybe it was written wrong. But, you wouldn’t happen to know a Jonathan Wick?” John looks over to Santino. The Italian wordlessly asks for the phone, to which John obeys without hesitation.

“Ah, you must be Dolores,” Santino answers, allowing John a moment to calm his nerves, “yes, I do know a Jonathan. I suppose this means you have his letter?” The voice pauses, a rustling being heard as though she is cleaning something. When the noise stops, the voice proceeds.

“I do! But, could you leave a message for him- you can? Great! I just want him to know that I’m so excited for him to be coming back to Oklahoma! And we’re always open for visitors, so his friend can come along too!” Dolores is ecstatic, an energy that is completely opposite to John’s solemn demeanor. They continue to speak until Dolores claims fatigue and leaves for her bed. Santino hangs up the phone and looks over to John.

“You shouldn’t be so anxious. Dolores sounds lovely, and from what I heard; she doesn’t mind if you bring me,” Santino steps towards the counter, hoping to persist with John and his kiss. John doesn’t appear willing, which causes Santino to dismiss the idea. He sits beside John instead, “I suppose she’s not the real problem?”

“I don’t want to be back in Oklahoma because” John opens his lip but doesn’t speak, as if he is choosing his next words cautiously, “I don’t want to be near Oklahoma.” Santino’s eyebrows lift at the news. He carefully takes John’s hands into his own, protective and sincere. John seems ashamed at the vulnerability, but before he can look off and signify his secrecy, Santino interrogates him.

“Why not? John, you can tell me,” The question stays in the air but is certainly not ignored. John lets his eyelids drop and he looks downwards in shame. Santino shifts his hand upwards onto John’s forearm, realizing the opportunity is gone. John kisses him to prevent from any other words, and Santino feels empty inside. However, this does not stop the kiss from persisting and escalating, “come on. We’re proper men; let’s do this in bed.”

Santino guides John away from the kitchen, up the spiral staircase, and into the bedroom. He clumsily falls backwards onto the mattress; most of his elegance is gone in that moment. John isn’t phased by this action and sets himself beside his boyfriend. Before anything poetic can occur, the dog rushes in. Santino groans at the intrusion which results in a faint smile from John.

“I don’t want to ruin the mood, but can the dog not watch this? I don’t want to burn her poor eyes.” Santino jokes while he uses his arms to raise his shirt above his frame. John carries the hound outside, just beyond the door, and slowly closes it. The dog is still there when the soft pastels of morning, and the begrudgingly awake couple it brings with it, comes. Nonetheless, there is a whine about the lack of food rations throughout the night. John, who has a scent from a cologne surprisingly familiar to Santino’s, pets the pitbull and apologizes.

*  
When the day comes to leave the comfort of New York boroughs for the small population of Oklahoma, the house is filled with guests and lively discussions about why each was given a certain position. Nobody has a role that is too extravagant neither difficult; Ares is the pitbull’s keeper, Jimmy has to make sure the house stays unoccupied for the longevity of the trip, and Aurelio is tasked with maintaining the integrity of the plants within the interior.

John speaks with each of them, mostly to allow Santino time to change into his more uncommon casual attire. A majority of his closet pertains to professional and formal uniforms; collared shirts, tightly fitted vests, and ostentatious jackets. Thus, a challenge arose when John had explained that his parents, with the support of several civilians in Oklahoma, would find it condescending to wear such expensive clothes.

“Santino is the only guy I know that’s actively willing to meet his partner’s family.” Jimmy teases, a hand securely on his hip. The officer had known about the event within the first week it was organized, due to his friendship with John that was comprised primarily on small bribes and politeness.

“I take it your wife doesn’t want to meet with your parents yet?” John replies and suppresses a laugh at Jimmy’s defeated look. Before they can continue with their talk, Aurelio joins with a flare and force of the elbow he always attributes to his Puerto Rican descent.

“Nobody’s girlfriend ever wants to meet the parents! After all, family is always so frenético,” Aurelio shouts cheerfully, his lack of volume control causing multiple people to face his direction. The feisty man is prepared to make another joke concerning relationships and their misgreviances though stops himself when Santino descends the stairs, the silence of astonishment colliding with the Italian’s shoes as they pound on the floorboards. Aurelio acts as though Santino has put a seven million dollar contract on everybody in the living room, “robaste esa ropa? I mean, you look great!”

Santino, who isn’t fluent in the Spanish language, smiles at the compliment. There is a pleasant comfort that contorts his features since the clothing is much larger and spacious compared to his previous outfits. His striped tee-shirt is tucked into his marigold jeans, both accessories fitting Santino’s bodily proportions nicely, “I wanted to make an impression. Besides, I do enjoy wearing these clothes. They’re much more comfortable than any of my garments.”

“Maybe you should wear them more often,” Jimmy begins, “I don’t think John here would complain.” The enforcer gets a snicker from Aurelio and the peripheral image of John’s face quite nonchalantly dusted with a tinge of scarlet. Santino moves from the group to Ares who is stroking the pitbull’s fur by her lonesome. Whenever her fingers drift away, the breed consistently follows them, as if yearning for their touch. Santino kneels to level his eyes to the pet and roughly yet speedily runs his hands through her fur. Her mouth opens in an eager smile at the wild action, therefore, Ares takes note of it mentally. Santino looks at her with a grim expression. His voice is low and quiet to prevent others from overhearing their conversation. Ares leans closer to Santino as he pretends to focus on the pitbull.

“Ares, are you certain that Oklahoma isn’t territory for any of the Camorra’s enemies?” Santino is peering over his shoulder. Ares nods as she informs him that no powerful gangs occupy the state, though he remains skeptical. She reassures him by claiming that John is a good man and if he felt as though Santino would be in imminent danger he would have been vocal about such emotions. He thanks her and asks if she needs anything before John and his departure.

Ares’ slender fingers voice her wonder for the pitbull’s favorite brand of food. Santino chuckles with brightened eyes and he gently swipes at his unkempt curls. He opens his mouth to answer, though pauses when he hears John calling his name. He smiles and says, “goodbye, for now, amico.”

Santino leaves to pack his luggage into the trunk of the older Mustang with John, the sizable bags providing a struggle to the task. The bags are taken care of by the time Aurelio starts to declare his sleepiness at watching the display. Santino sets himself in the shotgun seat, his fingers fiddling with the sunglasses in his hands. When John enters the driver’s seat, Santino places his glasses on in such a state of disorder that the American stares at him for a second to process what happened.

“Are you all right?” John asks, causing Santino to nod despite the welling amount of weariness in the pit of his stomach. The car’s engine starts and the Italian decides to press his back against the seat to hopefully sleep. He does manage to get a few hours of unsolicited rest, though he awakes during a particularly bumpy part of the trip where the road seamlessly evolved into one of gravel and rocks.

Santino lifts his sunglasses and wipes his dried eyes with the palm of his hand, stifling a deep yawn. By the woodland scenery passing outside the window, Santino assumes the two aren’t far from Oklahoma. He shifts upwards onto the seat once he notices he slid downwards during his slumber. He coughs from embarrassment, hoping John himself didn’t see the condition he is in. He lays his elbow on the windowsill and relaxes his weight on it.

“Do you know how far we are from your parents’ house?” Santino asks. John’s shoulders tense just slightly as though he wasn’t ready for the sudden noise. John clears his throat and looks over at his boyfriend.

“It’ll be another hour before we get there,” John informs, turning the radio’s volume lower, “but, now that we have time, I need to tell you something.” Santino stretches his arms which causes his tee-shirt to untuck subtly, though he delays in fixing it. He is far too exhausted to think of anything but the way the passing streetlights illuminate John’s face perfectly.

“Of course.” Santino makes a humming noise. A few rain droplets start to fall on the car and slide into the oblivion of the unseen.

“I haven’t told anybody in my family about anyone other than Helen,” John clarifies when Santino gives him a confused expression, “nobody back in Oklahoma knows that I’m dating again. But they’d react terribly if I told them either way because… you’re a man.“

“Oh,” Santino tears his eyes away from John and focuses on the occasional cars on the road, “so, your family just thinks I’m a friend?”

“Sorry-” John has something more to say but Santino interrupts him.

“Don’t worry,” Santino doesn’t look at John even though he can clearly tell that a gaze is adverted to him, “it’s fine.” He watches the rain begin to pour more heavily and forces himself not to turn back to John despite his seeping questions. John’s hair falls in front of his eyes, making them invisible to Santino. Part of him wants to know what John would have said; would his words be satisfactory or would they have just hurt Santino more?

Part of him ignores the question and continues to listen as the rain becomes louder than his thoughts.

*  
John’s observation was right; the two arrive at his parents’ house within an hour of uncomfortable silence. The house itself is larger than Santino thought it would be, with a pair of substantial entrance doors and multiple symmetrical windows. There is a small covering over the doorway with the rectangular front porch beneath it. Its painting of a rose garden is chipped due to age, though its remains lovely. Nearing the right side of the house is a smaller shed with a curtain covering its singular window.

Santino knows it is the correct address, despite him never being in Oklahoma, because there is a woman sitting on the front porch with an umbrella resting on her left shoulder. This is supposedly Dolores by the way she immediately rises to her feet when she sees the Mustang enter the driveway. The woman sprints down the steps, her posture exuding a childlike amazement. John exits the car and is instantly embraced by her.

“Johnny! It’s been way too long,” Dolores’ arms are strung around John’s body tightly. John pats her on the back and lets his hand rest there. When Dolores pulls away and notices Santino, who is tapping the dull tips of his fingers on his forearm to ignore the cold of the rain, she strains her arm outwards to him, “I’m sure you must be Santino D’Antonio, right? Welcome to Oklahoma!”

Santino shakes her thin hand and gives a polite smile. Dolores grins and, once she realizes how heavily the rain is streaming onto her guests, passes her umbrella to Santino. She claims she’ll bring in the luggage and heads for the trunk. John blocks her with his muscular arm and chuckles. He says a rare joke about her strength, then goes for the bags himself.

“How do you ever put up with him?” Dolores yells over the storm and leads Santino to the front door. She retrieves the keys from her sundress’ pocket and stabs them into the lock, shaking them furiously. She runs inside the instant they unlock with a faint click alongside Santino, their clothes soaked with the water. She kicks off her beaded sandals and kicks them towards the wall.

“Your house looks beautiful,” Santino comments as he surveys the interior. Dolores replies that most of it were paid by her father, and before him, they used to live near the rough side of town. Santino assumes she is speaking about her and John. He stands thoughtlessly near the door, which causes Dolores to cover her mouth in mortification.

“I’m so sorry! You’re probably thirsty! Let me get something for you while you dry off.” Dolores leads Santino through a wide, short archway into a large sitting room. She offers him a seat on one of the two couches, which he gladly accepts. When Dolores leaves for the kitchen, Santino begins to explore the room. There is a display cupboard with a plethora of photographs together with letters and different vases. Santino slowly opens it and reaches for an image. It is tinted from time and shows a young John, most likely during high school, running a hand through his hair. He’s in the middle of laughing about something, making his eyes squint closed and mouth wide in a grin. Santino chuckles at the absurdity of his pose. His shoulders tense when he hears John’s voice from behind him.

“All those pictures were taken by Dolores. Nobody else bothered to point a camera at me.” Santino places the photo back onto its shelf and turns to face John. He walks towards him and lifts his head slightly, expectant to be kissed as an apology for the lie that is commenced. John understands Santino and presses their lips together, his thumb gingerly caressing the Italian’s knuckles. When John hears someone’s footsteps becoming louder, he retreats away from Santino abruptly. Dolores enters through the archway with a tray of five cups and a kettle. She sets the tray onto the coffee table and gestures for Santino and John to sit parallel to her.

“I didn’t know which tea you enjoyed, Santino, so I’m sorry if you don’t like this one,” Dolores pours the steaming beverage into the cups, “it would be no problem at all to get you a new cup.” Santino takes his glass mug and sips it. He compliments Dolores’ tastes and claims it might be his new favorite. Dolores waves a dismissive hand, though the praise makes her giggle.

“Why are there five cups?” John asks. He is answered when his mother and step-father enter the room. John looks downwards at the steam rising from his beverage and stays motionless with a clenched jaw. Dolores gives a saddened expression at John, though she clears her throat and smiles at her parents. Santino forces himself to keep his hands on his cup.

“Jonathan, I didn’t know you were coming today. Oh, I would have prepared something.” John’s mother, Santino would later learn that her name is Elaine, seems distant, as though disassociated with the world surrounding her. John looks at her with a subtle frown.

“It’s all right, Mom. I wouldn’t have wanted anything, anyways.” Elaine smiles weakly at her son and goes to sit beside Dolores. John avoids her glance and traces the engraving of the cup. Santino has never seen John so uncomfortable, though decides to leave the matter for later.

“You’re Santino, aren’t you? Well,” John’s step-father, Diablo, scans Santino with a rather judgemental gaze, “mind telling us how you met Wick?” The Italian gives faulty smile at the question.

“Of course,” The tip of his tongue barely extends as he licks his lips with direct eyes, “we met during a business venture. John needed help with a certain problem, an impossible task, you could say. He came to me with his trust and we’ve been working together ever since. I suppose a friendship was inevitable between us.” John nods to reaffirm Santino’s mostly accurate story. The American knows his alibi is secure when Diablo moves onwards in the conversation.

“I still can't get behind the idea of you being Wick’s friend,” Diablo snickers, “have you ever spent a late night at the office with him? I wouldn’t put it past him.” John’s lips purse at that and his grip on the cup in his hands becomes harder. Santino chuckles wearily at the joke and interrupts himself to drink.

“John is a very professional man,” Santino responds simply since his mother taught him to never lie. Saying anything else would ruin the facade John and he is portraying.

Diablo scoffs at the answer as if disappointed, “So, you religious or anything?” Santino is about to reply by saying his mother taught him to be Catholic, though John interrupts him.

“How are you doing, Mom?” John says in an attempt to stop the questions from continuing. He doesn’t mean to have the edge in his deep voice, but he does and it is prevalent. Elaine’s head perks upwards from the pearl bracelet around her wrist. With her face visible, Santino is able to see her more clearly. Her thick ebony hair is pulled into a low ponytail, though several strands are loose and sporadic. Her grey eyes are focused on her son, and her attentive smile is false and tired. Due to her lack of wrinkles, Elaine could easily be mistaken for John’s sister rather than his mother.

“Don’t interrupt me, Wick,” Diablo almost growls. He is a stark opposite to Elaine. His tanned skin is defined by sharp edges and demanding features, with a short haircut that was combed to the side, “but sure. How’re you, Elaine?” The woman taps the brim of her cup nervously.

“I’m fine, truly.” She doesn’t sound convincing. John obviously wants to leave by his mannerisms, so Santino creates a diversion. He places down his cup and explains that he and John are exhausted from packing. He makes a quip surrounding the quality of the road which makes Elaine laugh, and asks Dolores where their rooms are. Dolores gladly leaves the situation with Santino and her brother.

“This is exactly why I shouldn’t have come back,” John whispers to Dolores as the three walk up the stairs with the cumbersome luggage. Santino is behind them, a bitter taste in his mouth and a dreadful feeling in his stomach. They pass an opened door that connects to a room situated between a bathroom and another vacant bedroom.

“Please, Johnny. Just relax a bit; this is only for a week,” Dolores realizes she passed the door and steps back towards it, “sorry about that, guys! These are your guest rooms. I hope they’re not too stuffy- I haven’t been in here for at least a month or two.” Santino thanks her and watches as she turns the corner of the hallway. The Italian reasserts his attention to John, then asks the difficult question.

“Do you want the left or right bedroom?” From the view through the doorway, the left bedroom is much more luxurious; a larger window that spanned to the floor with more detailed curtains, and a vanity with artificial plants to bring a calm atmosphere. John makes his way towards the right bedroom, the action baffling to Santino.

“The right bedroom is more practical.” John clarifies. Santino, still confused, enters the bedroom and finds that there is a lamp beside the mattress that extends from the floor. The Italian starts to laugh quietly when he recognizes that the left bedroom only had a light switch on the wall farthest from the bed. He steps towards the bed as John begins to strip from his shirt with a swift movement. Santino watches admiringly until John’s voice perks up.

“Sorry about Diablo.” John’s approach is straightforward and Santino has to commend him for that. He places his hand atop John’s.

“You shouldn’t apologize on his behalf,” Santino replies. John smiles though the happiness is short-lived when scattered footsteps are heard. Santino, by reflex, forces his hand away despite himself. He says his goodbyes and leaves for his own bedroom where he decides upon showering in the bathroom before he rests. He stands underneath the warm water until his fingers start to prune. Then, once he finishes drying himself and dressing in his pajamas (the shirt is oversized because he took it from John’s wardrobe and the pants are an unmatching color of fabric), he slowly walks back to his room. However, the unmistakable urge to knock on John’s passing door consumes him, though he is uncertain on what to do exactly. Finally, he knocks at a certain tempo with uneven pauses.

Santino thinks John is already asleep due to the prolonged silence that emerges after he finishes. But, just before the man gives up and walks back to his own bedroom, a coded response comes from the other side. It’s faint enough that only Santino can hear it, but it is audible nonetheless. It spells out goodnight slowly.

The Italian presses his forehead against the cold wood for a long time, debating whether he should twist the doorknob. He sighs and leaves for his own lonesome bed, allowing the thought to hit him like a ton of bricks; the week would be lonely and tiresome. He wipes his tears at the emptiness beside him that seems more present with each passing minute and finally closes his eyes.

From beyond the thin wall, John stays awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary:
> 
> “Sei bello.” - “You’re handsome.” In Italian, bello is roughly the male version of bellissimo  
> “Anche tu.” - “You are too.”  
> “Frenético.” - “Crazy/hectic.” In Spanish, frenético means wild and energetic. However, Aurelio uses it to mean hectic.  
> “¿Robaste esa ropa?” - “Did you steal those clothes?” I was unsure if grammatically it was correct to place the inverted question mark into the actual story. Any Spanish speakers; please correct me if I’m wrong!  
> “Amico.” - “Friend.” In Italian, it’s more of a ‘buddy’ or ‘pal’ way of saying friend, if that makes sense.
> 
> Small Detail(s):  
> Elaine is an old French form of the name Helen  
> Diablo is a Spanish male name meaning the Devil
> 
> Examples of homophobia in Oklahoma:  
> https://www.outsports.com/2016/11/29/13784462/oklahoma-state-football-banner-gay  
> https://www.rt.com/usa/412691-homosexuality-pedophilia-oklahoma-outrage/
> 
> I would like to state that I don't believe everybody in Oklahoma, nor any other state, is homophobic. I perceived John as being from Oklahoma, and thus, researched on any homophobic instances in the state for purposes of the story only.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning comes in the form of sunlight peering through the thin split of the curtains. It layers the darkness of the bedroom with an irritating brightness that cannot be ignored by a simple ascension of cotton sheets over the eyes. Santino groans at the intrusion and turns his body to shield himself with his curled back. There is a strain on his neck and his right arm is rendered useless due to its numbness. Santino wipes at the steady stream of saliva that spread onto his cheek throughout the night. There is an array of knocks on the door with a certain strength and infrequency.

“ _Puoi entrare,_ John.” Santino’s voice is hoarse yet quiet from fear of being overheard. The door creaks barely open with a lengthy grating and John wordlessly enters through the small fissure. His emotionless eyes have visible bags underneath them from a sleepless night, making him appear more perturbed and pitiful. He peers outside the door and along the extent of the decorated hallway until he knows that they are irrefutably the only ones awake. With a gentle movement, John closes the door.

“What are your thoughts on my family?” John walks towards the bed once Santino gestures for his desired presence beside him. The Italian shifts awkwardly to give John a larger portion of the mattress.

“I like Dolores. Something about her nature exudes a friendliness.” Santino places his head discreetly on John’s chest, tracing the olden Renaissance paintings he remembers faintly from museums he had visited when he was still youthful. He times his breathes with John’s heartbeat, allowing his eyelids to falter downwards peacefully. John uses his arm’s position on Santino’s back to pull the Italian closer towards him; a defensive impulse to ensure that Santino is a protected part of reality. They weave their fingers together, the feeling of rough calluses and smooth skin intoxicating to both of them. John looks downwards at Santino’s calmed expression and hesitates to speak again.

“And my parents?” John knows the truthful, uncensored answer; Santino finds their atmospheres unbearable. Elaine was dissociative and Diablo was verbally intolerable. Those traits weren’t welcoming, especially as an uncomfortably long first impression.

“They are,” Santino hesitates as he plans his following words cautiously, “fine. I have only just met them, so perhaps they will grow on me during the week.” John chuckles dryly at Santino’s attempt to be polite. They stay hushed, admiring each other in the rising light of a small-town sun. When Santino’s eyelids drop, he imagines himself back at in his own hometown of Pisciotta, listening to the coastal waves as they clashed against the cool winds. When John sleeps, his insomnia dissipating just momentarily, he visualizes the times when he and his Dad still ran shoeless in the nearby creeks before cancer finally took him.

John opens his eyes from the shock and trauma; his grip tighter on Santino. The Italian mumbles at the pressure and, upon feeling the trembles of John’s figure, separates their fingers. Wordlessly, Santino presses his newly-freed hand above the center of John’s ribcage. The tactic was learned through several months of sleeping beside John and becoming acquainted with his night terrors. The first few occasions had John punching at the air with a fear that wasn’t quite understandable; Santino gained a bloody nose from one of these times, though hid it with his hand as he soothed the Marine. But those instances are in the past.

“Thanks,” John mutters between ragged breaths. Santino continues to sleep as John watches his stomach’s slow rise and fall.

*  
The second time the couple awakes, John decides they should begin the day properly. Santino detests the idea with a tired incoherency as John leaves the bed for his own room. The Italian watches as he exits quietly, slightly disgruntled at the plethora of missed opportunities. He sighs and sits upright, most of the bed’s warmth being stolen from him. He spends several minutes rummaging through his luggage, choosing between shoes and jeans as though they were more important than champagne and artwork.

Santino enters the corridor in a substantial plaid shirt underneath a beige bomber jacket and waits for John. He glances at the pictures on the walls; most are of family members, though a select few have John in them. He looks different, almost completely than the photographs Santino saw last night. He doesn’t have a smile, which makes Santino feel emotionally collapsed inside for unknown reasons.

When John leaves his room (the Italian paused when he saw the collared shirt since its emphasization of certain muscles was captivating), the two go downstairs and into the dining room, where Dolores and Elaine are. Dolores is sketching pieces of the plant before her, the pencil making a soft sound as it dances over the sheet. Elaine is beside the sink in the attached kitchen, washing the dishes with languid movement. Her eyes are pierced forwards, an unspoken depression enveloping them. John’s hands transform into fists momentarily, though they quickly revert.

“Good morning guys! I didn’t think you two would be up this early, especially after being cramped in a car for so long.” Dolores puts down her pencil and takes her sketchbook into her lap. Her smile is inviting and kind enough for Santino to sit beside her. John goes over to Elaine and places a hand on her forearm, causing the woman to inhale from surprise. She faces John and gives a weak smile, confirming she is aware of him.

“Surely you two must be hungry,” Elaine takes off the rubber gloves she is wearing and discards them on the counter, revealing her slim, arthritic fingers. John frowns at her lack of energy and suggests that he can make breakfast, “oh, thank you, Jonathan.” She seats herself beside Santino, a hand coursing through her hair in a neurotic episode of anxiety.

“So Santino, do you have any hobbies?” Dolores wonders as she rolls the sleeves of her sweater to the middles of her forearms. Its soft shade of white contrasts the green tinted flowers speckled randomly across its area. She places her elbows onto the table as a kid might, causing Elaine to give a lopsided smile.

“I collect paintings,” Santino watches as Dolores’ contours brighten with interest, “I do like to consider myself a connoisseur.” The woman invites Santino to the exterior shed after breakfast, claiming Santino would enjoy it. The Italian accepts the offer happily, though the moment is halted by Diablo. Elaine curls away slightly, a defensive leg thrown above the other in protection.

“Started breakfast without me?” Diablo’s words are rhetoric, almost instigating for a fight. Santino can practically feel John’s irritation but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tries charming the perfect example of a terrible host.

“Just barely, though I assure you we would have saved you some of John’s excellent cooking.” Santino grins at Diablo, hoping it will dissolve the apprehensive tone of the dining room. It merely reinforces Diablo’s snide comments.

“Trust me, Wick can’t do anything right, let alone cook,” Diablo sits across from Santino in a display of authority, “least I know he’s not a queer.” Dolores purses her lips at the insult but refrains from speaking what she is currently thinking. Santino, after examining the frigidness of the female family members, realizes he is the one assigned with speaking against Diablo’s notion. John speaks first, however.

“That’s not funny.” John instantly regrets the sentence as it stagnates in the air. He listens to the rustling movements of fabric which prove Dolores and Elaine are turned towards his back. His wincing expression is hidden.

“Please, Wick. It was a joke. Besides, don’t all jokes have some truth in them?” Diablo snickers to himself, looking at Santino to see if he will join in the laughter. The Italian remains solemn and, when John is silenced, speaks himself.

“ _Gesù Cristo,_ ” Santino scrutinizes Diablo’s unchanging features to confirm his words weren’t understood, “having the competence to perform a task has no causation to anything genetic.” The Italian realizes his mistake and keeps his lips parted moderately in uncertainty. Diablo gives Santino a gaze; one of discontent and brutality.

“Why are you two so adamant about defending queers, huh? Got something to say?” Elaine voices that she will help John plate the food, allowing her an exit from the conversation. Santino’s nostrils expand noticeably as he tries to maintain his collected composure. Finally, he answers despite the amount of pain it causes.

“No. I assure you that John and I are merely friends” Diablo’s suspicions lower then and he begins to ask personal questions about Santino’s relationships. The Italian jokingly replies to each of the inquiries by claiming none of the women he works with ever give him the chance to speak. When Diablo starts laughing at his jokes, Santino knows that he is protected under the veil of secrecy once more. Elaine serves breakfast then, with John skipping the meal entirely due to a loss of appetite. Santino finds it a shame, considering the American made a great dish in such a short span of time.

Diablo, refusing to eat in spite of his stepson, announces his departure for work. Elaine sweetly wishes him farewell, though he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her. Dolores finishes her plate fairly quickly afterwards because, by Santino’s speculation, she simply wanted to leave the vicinity as soon as possible. When Santino is done eating, accompanied by a longing stare at John to reassure the man, he follows Dolores away from the area.

“I’m sorry about Dad, Santino,” Dolores genuinely sounds devastated at how her father behaved. Santino waves a dismissive hand to demonstrate his falsified ease with the situation. The woman guides him across the grassy yard towards the closed shed. She reminds Santino of the small, wooden steps as she climbs them towards the shed’s sealed door. Slowly, she opens the door and enters the cramped structure. Santino steps inside behind her and squints due to the uncomfortable darkness, “hold on, the blinds are here somewhere- ah! There they are!”

The sound of rustling fills the room as Dolores pulls on the string that controls the curtains. Her grunts of difficulty become exaggerated though eventually, she stops in a moment of brilliance. The curtains open speedily, enabling the sunlight to cascade across the vicinity. In its wake, the light reveals an array of paintings, each realistic and skillfully crafted. Santino stays unmoving as he processes the surrounding art pieces, each with the same messy signature.

“Did you paint these?” Santino manages to speak. Dolores smiles and nods, explaining that she was excited about John having a creative friend other than herself. The corner’s of Santino’s lips curl upwards at the joke and there is an intrigue in his eyes. He inquires about her talents and how she procured them.

“I always liked painting. I suppose it became therapeutic around the time Johnny ran away,” Dolores catches herself before she exposes too much and continues as though nothing was said, “but I picked up a paintbrush and never stopped. I just drew a piece a month ago, but it’s super rushed.” She gestures to a covered canvas on the easel closest to the window as she remarks about the beauty of natural light. Santino, impressed and bewildered at Dolores’ talent, reaches for the cloth and pulls it off.

Underneath is a beautiful painting of stream; Dolores claims it is based on the nearby lake that she would go to when she was younger. The portion of her childhood is evident by the two teenagers sitting near the water, their eyelids heavy with a residing calmness. The painting reminds Santino exactly of the photograph John kept in his attic. Santino glances at Dolores, her expression becoming nervous and shy at his lack of words. He parts his lips and speaks.

“How much does a custom painting cost?”

*  
John is roaming the streets of an Oklahoma city. He didn’t want to stay with Elaine for too long; the awkward silence would become too much to bear. Instead, he told her about his sudden plans to reconnect with his friends. She stuttered her response to John, giving him the feeling of needing to either punch Diablo until his knuckles hurt or vomit. John considers these facts as he walks mindlessly by the scattered buildings, letting himself reminisce. The convenience store he passes makes him stop as he observes its sign. He used to smoke near the entrance whenever he and his Dad got into a fight, though he would always be influenced by the cold winds to come back home. He is temporarily brought out of his memory by a loud, obnoxious voice.

“Wait? Is that Johnny?” The voice yells from across the street. John looks towards its general direction and is greeted by a group of adults. He squints his eyes to avoid the sun and sees the figures more clearly. He suddenly realizes that he is about to face his old childhood friends.

“Oh my God! Guys, c’mon! Johnny! Hey!” John waves reluctantly in response as the energetic group sprint across the street and embraces him. The past comradery revives itself as they all overlap each other to update John. The American can only watch in confusion and slight amusement at the absurdity of the reunion. A blonde man maneuvers his way forcefully through his friends.

“Everyone, you’re scarin’ him,” the man turns to face John, “sorry about them. They’re hopped up on somethin’.” John examines his saviour’s face and widens his eyes in surprise.

“Henry?” John thinks aloud. The blonde smiles, emphasising the wrinkles around his eyes. He shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head.

“I don’t look too different than I did in high school, right?” Henry teases as he retracts himself into his hoodie from a faltering embarrassment at his appearance. John politely compliments Henry, claiming his pride and joy (though Henry pronounced the ‘and’ with a more existent southern accent) locks are as golden as he remembered. But John’s memory is tainted by loss so he isn’t a reliable source; he doesn’t tell Henry that.

“Johnny, you should totally come by that lake near the park! We have some business there anyway- we’ll be killing two birds!” Another friend laughs with excitement. John agrees despite his desires of being unbothered; he has to forget about his parents in some way. The form of huddled people acting righteously due to his reply seems to be the greatest answer at the moment. They lead him away from the convenience store and guide him to more rural areas.

*  
“It’s nice seein’ you again, Johnny,” Henry says once the horde of friends reached the lake. The rushing water seems to have an ambiance of relaxation to it that tempts everyone to calm themselves. While the others are jumping off the empty dock or progressing the gravel pathway that leads visitors back to urbanization, John and Henry are occupying a nearby bench.

“Thanks, Henry.” John leans his weight on his elbows in an act of comfort.

“So, what brings you back,” When John explains that his mother is going to have her birthday soon, Henry’s eyebrows raise then furrow, “I’m sorry to hear that. Must be tough having to deal with Diablo, huh?” John nods at the statement with no reluctance. Henry offers John a beer for his troubles, though accepts the denial.

“Mom still has Dad’s pearl bracelet.” John looks downwards, remembering with blurry filters when his Mom told him that it was the most beautiful gift his father ever gave her. She was happier in the past, even if she had an accidental son and a slowly increasing debt. Lines of stress form on John’s forehead as he forces himself to focus on Henry. The younger man sighs.

“I’d hug you, but I don’t want you to think I’m gay or anythin’,” Henry jokes and John stays silent as he laughs, “how are you and Dolly?” John chuckles at the nickname after several decades of not hearing it. The conversation becomes lighter then. One topic that is continuously brought up is Santino; being one of the few Italians in Oklahoma brought attention to him. Henry is particularly keen on discovering details about his relationship to John, which provides a slight worry in the Marine.

“I don’t think Santino likes beer, Henry,” John is lying; he knows that Santino prefers wine and that the taste of beer disgusts him. Henry gives a false yawn and claims Santino sounds boring, “he’s not.” That is the undeniable truth of Santino; one that sometimes exhausts John in a perfectly acceptable way.

“Why’d you even bring him along with you if you hate your family so much? I’m detecting some sadism in you, Johnny.” Before John can reply, an unknown horde of people arrive. John watches them with his peripherals as he absentmindedly reaches towards his abdomen. However, there is no suit pocket and therefore no pistol to defend himself.

“Who are they?” John turns to Henry, who raises from his seat and moves his hands with a leisurely pace. Henry claims they are only here to conduct a business trade before he produces a small plastic bag from within his jeans back pockets. They contain a clear powder that John immediately recognizes from the poorer parts of New York’s boroughs.

The scattered friends of Henry retreat beside him as they show identical pouches. John pushes himself away from the bench, though an unnoticeable, loose piece of wood lodges itself into his palm. He winces at the pain of the splinter but still walks towards the gangs. As they begin to speak, John struggles to pull the wood outwards from his skin. Before the task is completed, someone begins to shout.

“You said it would be ten dollars!” John looks from his wound and notices the closing space between the groups. Henry places the bag back into his ragged hoodie’s pocket and scoffs at the statement.

“I said twenty and we both know that. If you don’t have the money, then you don’t get the supply; I’m sorry.” Henry speaks with a calm voice, clearly attempting to end the situation before it escalates. Suddenly, one of the women from the rival gang rapidly draws a dulled knife. Henry and his friends step backwards from shock at the violence. One of them brandishes her own weapon yet wastes little time to begin the fight. She sprints towards another drug dealer, stabbing him bluntly in the thigh.

The entire assault happens instantaneously. Men grapple with each other as they desperately try to break whichever finger they can. John reflexively grabs a dropped pocket knife and forces his body to collide with a thin woman’s frame. She yelps as they both hit the floor, dust rising from the action. John lifts himself above her and prepares the blade. He falters when his images of Viggo’s employees and a dastardly skilled bodyguard of a D’Antonio woman subside. In their place lies a tearful teenage girl, choking on her sobs pathetically. His lips part subtly at the view. He remembers a dark-haired boy with a low-income family, burdened by a father’s death and in need of money.

“Get off of me! I won’t hurt you, I swear!” She pleads as her cheeks become red with a disorienting worry. John speedily leaves from his position on the girl and helps her stand. She wipes her tears and tries to seem tough.

“Go back home. This isn’t a place you should be in.” John simply says. The teenager nods and rushes away, tripping a few times in her confused state. He watches her form leave through the trees, alongside her bruised colleagues’. John looks at the knife in his hand and drops it onto the bloodied ground. His ears ring and he feels the need to vomit. A hand forces him into reality, uncaring of his desired decline.

“Johnny, I owe you. The moment you started fightin’, I swear some men cried. Guess those Marine days were good to you-” Henry is interrupted by the sound of sirens. John is prepared to punch Henry’s already damaged complexion, though is stopped when the police vehicles approach. John, realizing Diablo would most likely be inside one of the cars, decides to escape the scene instead.

John dashes past the forest and finds a small area of shrubbery. He hides and listens to the officers’ yells pierce the leaves and bark. He still feels the knife in his hand, despite the fact that all he has in his possession is a piece of wood.

*  
“People were bleeding and a man got shot. I didn’t care for his sob story, I just arrested him.” Diablo informs during dinner. John bites into his portion of mashed potatoes, suppressing an urge to react at his splinter. Santino, oblivious to the reason for John’s pain yet noticing it nonetheless, sets his hand on John’s leg underneath the table, soothingly patting it. The Italian’s expression remains unwavering as he listens to Diablo’s version of the story.

“Did you recognize anyone?” Dolores asks as her long hair strands fall onto the table. She ties her straight locks into a low ponytail which lays on her back, preventing any more incidents.

“Everybody’s faces were too messed up to make sense of. But I did get this glimpse of a teenage girl; she’s locked in the station for the night. Dumb broad couldn’t tell left from right.” Diablo laughs and hits the table, causing the glasses to clatter noisily. John freezes then, which cause Santino’s hand to stop as well. The dinner continues regardless, though Santino knows that something is definitely wrong.

“That’s great sweetheart,” Elaine replies with an answer that sounds automated as though it is an impulse and not a compliment. John shifts an unoccupied hand beside Santino’s, pressing them gently together. Santino covers his smile by shoving a slice of meat into his mouth. He looks away from John and faces Diablo once the man gains his attention through a loud interjection.

“So Santino, are there druggies back in New York?” Santino nods at the question and responds, though the annoyingly pitched noise in John’s ears prevent him from hearing anything until the dinner is finished and Santino is alongside him, walking down the hallway. The noise halts when John is in front of his bedroom’s unlocked door. Santino observes his empty nature; his emotionless stare and strained posture makes the Italian sigh to hide his agony.

“You should stay with me tonight. It would benefit you, _amato._ ” Santino suggests as he enters his bedroom. John, his shoulders weighted downwards by the intense and sudden hatred for himself, glances at the light coming from Santino’s room. He doesn’t hesitate to enter it, shutting the door softly behind him. The Italian acknowledges him with a faint smile and taps the sheets beside him invitingly. John seats himself on the covers, entranced with their subtle warmth, and faces Santino.

“I have a splinter,” John says, breaking the appreciated quietness. Santino chuckles lightly at his announcement and asks its exact location. John reveals the palm of his hand, purpled carefully from the piece of wood. Santino uses his smooth fingers to retract it and wipes his thumb over the blood that emerges in its absence.

“Where were you today? I only saw you in the evening.” Santino sees the lines forming on John’s face, wrinkles from age and bitterness appearing. John lowers his head and rests it on the Italian's hand, which makes his lips lazily kiss its lines. The heat feels comfortable and John considers the possibility of sleeping.

“I met up with old friends,” Before Santino can question him, he continues, “it was awful.” The Italian understands his apprehension to speak about these supposed friends, or any topic pertaining to his afternoon, and stays quiet as John closes his eyelids. He plans his approach on persuading John to sleep though is distracted by the persistent notifications on his phone. John opens his eyes as Santino groans from the intervention. John sits upright, watching Santino lower his phone’s achingly high brightness.

“It’s Ares. I apologize but I promised her I would answer her messages if she ever required it of me.” Santino looks at her texts, clearly entertained by her priorities.

**Ares (4:53 PM):** Your dog only sleeps and sometimes watches the television. Is this healthy behaviour?

**Ares (5:38 PM):** I don’t understand your dog’s routine. I placed food for it a minute ago and she acts like I didn’t give her food.

**Ares (6:29 PM):** Your dog is a moron. She ran into my screen door and started to limp away, then ran into it again.

**Ares (8:17 PM):** Are you safe? You haven’t responded to me yet.

Santino texts her with rapid movements, telling her that he is protected by John. He is about to close his phone when suddenly Ares responds once more with a small alert.

**Ares (8:18 PM):** Good to know. How are the Wicks?

**Santino (8:18 PM):** I’ll tell you when I get back to New York. But for now; Dolores seems lovely.

**Ares (8:18 PM):** She does sound nice. Would you give me her number?

**Santino (8:19 PM):** I asked John and he said no. I really want to focus on him right now, so can I get back to focusing on him?

**Ares (8:19 PM):** Be seeing you, Santino.

The Italian finally sets his phone onto his bedside drawer and focuses on John. The way he is positioned shades part of his face from the slowly rising moonlight illuminating on him. It makes him seem ethereal like the clay sculptures in Rome and Santino wants to outstretch his arm to touch the curves of his features. Before Santino can indulge in the pleasure of viewing John’s appearance for much longer, the American speaks.

“Can I take you somewhere?” John inquires and Santino happily accepts the offer to leave the house in favour of the outside Oklahoman setting. They leave the bedroom and descend the staircase quietly by avoiding the creaking steps and floorboards. The couple is about to open the front door, John’s hand is on the doorknob itself, but a strong voice stops them. It is unmistakably Diablo’s by its rustic nature.

“Where are you two going?” Their error was passing an empty doorway, specifically of the sitting room. The archway is a few paces backwards from where the two are standing, so they need to awkwardly step down the entrance hall to see Diablo.

“We’re going out for a smoke break, Diablo,” John speaks first, a slight fidget in his thumb and index finger. Santino steps to view shortly afterwards, seeing Diablo’s disheveled form on the couch parallel to the arch. His back is slouched, making his face invisible. Somehow the anonymity of his aspects makes him more menacing.

“Oh please, Wick. You’re about as much a liar as your mother,” John struggles to not shout at the insult, “so where are you going, actually?” Diablo’s head raises and he rests it on his hand. John calms himself and restates his answer with an edge that tempts Diablo’s next harsh decision. He calls for Santino who lifts his gaze from the insignificant scratches on the floor. Santino steps inside the room but declines Diablo’s offer to sit down.

“Yes?” He is annoyed at Diablo’s treatment, though he cannot exactly punish him for it without inadvertently harming John.

“Do you think Wick here is weak?” The question catches Santino by surprise to the point where he gives out a laugh from confusion. When he realizes Diablo is serious, he stops.

“No, Diablo.”

“Are you sure? Because, as I remember,” John is visibly shaking, “Wick can’t even hold himself together in a fight. Let me tell you; he doesn’t stand a chance against me in a fist fight. Want to know how I do? One time, this bastard got mad that I went through his stuff- I found his little magazines but that doesn’t matter.”

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” John crosses his arms over his broad torso and lets his hair fall over his eyes in an attempt to shield himself.

“Anyways, he got so mad he tried to get a punch in. Long story short, I managed to break his wrist and kicked him outside for a while. Probably spent the time trying to get money for food by any means possible, if you catch what I’m trying to say.” Santino’s eyes widen at the statement as he looks to John, who mumbles his departure and leaves. The Italian goes after him and, the second he hears the door close, Diablo sleeps peacefully.

John and Santino reconnect on the front porch. The Italian carefully intertwines their fingers and embraces John, who silently cries into his shoulder.

*  
“I was here earlier today,” John neglects to tell Santino much more information, “and I guessed you might want to be here too.” The two walk farther into the forest, the gravel path underneath them rustling wildly. When the air begins to carry the faint smell of algae, John knows the two are close to the vacant harbour. After several minutes of walking through the wintry weather (it is August so Oklahoma is acting on its own strange, rebellious accord) the two reach a large parting of the forest which reveals the lake John had seen in the morning light. Somehow, the stars make the area emphasis its beauty more prevalently. However, it could simply be Santino’s body close to his.

“It is infatuating.” Santino scans the distance of the wooden dock. His eyes reflect the darkened sky, his pupils becoming a white circle of excellence. John guides Santino down the harbour to its brink where they seat themselves. Their legs dangle off the verge, the breeze moving the limbs with little resistance.

“John,” Santino glances to the horizon, “I didn’t know you fought your dad before.” He frowns at the thought of John being hurt, by an authority figure no less. John shrugs and claims he was a troublesome child.

“It was before I left for the Marines Corp. But it wasn’t just the magazines that made me mad,” Santino urges him to continue by shuffling closer to him, “it was the way he made me scared. He had power over me and he only ever used it to force me to be silent whenever he would beat me or flirt with the younger women down at the station. I couldn’t take it anymore.” He clutches the wood plank with his hands, breaths rapid from the vivid memories that managed to stay despite everything. Santino places his hand over John’s, holding it with a strong grip. John looks at Santino and doesn’t hesitate to kiss him.

Santino latches his hands through John’s hair comfortably, the thin strands feeling like silk robes underneath the tips of his fingers. The two proceed until Santino hitches one of his legs over John’s thighs. They part for a second with their foreheads still connected, Santino’s forearms lying on John’s shoulders. There is a pair of strong hands on his waist and Santino wonders if this is the closest John could be to admitting his love for somebody.

“I’m afraid, John,” Santino manages to speak even if his throat most likely collapsed on itself, “that I might never be able to experience something this again. Why in the world did you think that bringing me here was a great idea?” John doesn’t answer the question, the fear setting with him likewise. They continue with the passion of not wanting to be apart and abandoned, though it all stops when the distinct sound of footsteps on pebbles becomes louder. John separates them despite the tender yet rough sadness that follows.

“Johnny? There you are! God, I thought you and Santino drove back to New York,” Dolores steps onto the dock, “but I saw your Mustang in the driveway and I knew you just ran off.” Santino allots Dolores space between John and him which she gladly accepts. Instead of peering off the perimeter of the dock above the wet oblivion of the lake, Dolores’ legs tuck neatly beside her with a feminity. John courses his hand through his hair to straighten it whilst Santino copes with the lack of calloused hands on his hips.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep by now?” Dolores rolls her eyes at the statement.

“First, I’m not thirteen anymore,” She tilts her chin upwards as she sees the stars glint in a prepossessing manner, “second, I couldn’t without knowing where you were,” Santino asks what the three will do for the coming hours since going back to Diablo’s house was not an option yet.

“We could stay here,” John answers, staring at the ripples as they muddle the trees into moving blotches.

“It’s too cold,” Dolores responds, bringing attention to her shivering exposed shoulders and lack of sweater. Her dress might not protect her from the winds but it is still magnificent with a marble pattern of grey and brown swirls, “besides, you’re probably hungry. You barely ate Mom’s food at dinner.” John tries to remember though cannot, he is too concerned with ending the bitter feeling at the pit of his stomach.

“Do you know anywhere we could go to eat? I have yet to tour Oklahoma’s restaurants expansively; this might be the chance to do so.” Santino leans his back forwards to get a nearer view of the thin surface of the lake. Dolores gasps as though she has an idea and announces they should go to an old childhood diner that John used to frequent. She gets up and wipes the fragments of dirt off her knees, claiming Santino should order the vegetarian pizza to get the most out of his experience.

John stands on his feet and extends a hand towards Santino, who takes it gratefully. He balances himself and walks down the dock with Dolores, whose excited words wash away the anger towards her interruption earlier.

*  
The diner is pleasant. It is not as fancy as the restaurants Santino frequents or prefers, though it does provide a nice change in routine. It is greasy and filled with waitresses with stereotypical American names, Bridget is amongst the Italian’s favourite, though they are polite and even give Dolores free fries for her acquaintance with the business. Santino is seated beside John in a booth facing Dolores, his shoulder brushing against the wall. He wants to believe that Oklahoma has the chance to surprise him; to be better than what he know assumes it is. For a second, he considers himself a fool.

This feeling amplifies when the familiar frame of an old accomplice of the Camorra enters. Santino immediately recognizes his rather practical size and turns himself towards the window, trying to hide his face. John notices but acts as though nothing were amidst in an attempt to appear normal. Dolores is speaking about how one of the waitresses used to ride a motorcycle when suddenly a man’s hand slams onto the table. She hushes herself then and looks at the man’s scarred skin.

“Do you need something, sir?” Dolores asks rhetorically, causing the man to slide his hand off of the table. He gives out a growl like an animal’s and finally formulates his sentence.

“I’d know that face anywhere. Mr. D’Antonio, that’s you, right?” Santino lets out a quiet curse and turns his head reluctantly.

“ _Buonasera amico,_ ” Santino tries to seem calm, “I’m in the middle of something important.” John watches the unknown man scoff at the response and leans in closer. Instinctively, John places a hand on the man’s chest, his plate shaking at the movement. He reaches for one of his utensils but is blocked by Santino’s hand.

“Never knew you could be somewhere without your guards. Makes you seem kind of,” he pauses, his eyes now possessing a fierceness, “vulnerable.” Santino’s jaw clenches at that and his throat becomes dry and immovable. John talks for him, telling the man that he should go. It is forthright and almost threatening which intimidates the man. He steps backwards and exaggeratingly lifts his hands before leaving, shoving past innocent patrons on his way. Santino, realizing that Dolores alongside other customers are searching for an answer, composes himself.

“He is merely a business partner that was laid off for misconduct,” Santino knows that this was an understatement for a crime done against another Camorra member; unreasonable torture to be precise. Dolores nods at the answer and slowly regains her confidence.

“I swear, I could never be in charge of a business; everyone seems so brutal!” Dolores laughs to ignore her fear. As she proceeds her story, John observes Santino’s curled position as the Italian contemplates his next moves carefully.

Santino stops only when John holds his hand underneath the table. They stay this way for the rest of the meal until it is over and the two absolutely need to clear from the table. Under the false excuse of a smoke break, the couple leave for the dumpster, where Santino initiates a kiss to regain some semblance of protection. He is not disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary:  
> “Puoi entrare, John.” - “You can enter, John.” Entrare is the formal way of saying someone can enter a room or come in.  
> “Gesù Cristo.” - “Jesus Christ.” While the wording is formal, the way Santino uses it (exasperated by Diablo’s treatment of John) makes it seem more like an interjection.  
> “Amato.” - “Beloved”  
> “Buonasera amico.” - “Good evening, friend.”
> 
> Small Detail(s):  
> Henry means the leader of the household and/or group
> 
> How PTSD Affects the Brain and its Memory:  
> http://www.thedoctorwillseeyounow.com/content/stress/art1964.html
> 
> I was overwhelmed with the support of the previous chapter! Everyone was so nice- yet another reason why I love this community! Also, I apologize if this story will be updated slowly; if I want to produce the best possible chapters for you guys I do need some time to plan, write, and edit!


	3. Chapter 3

Santino awakes to John’s solemn figure beside his, the exuding warmth providing a remarkable feeling of comfort. He doesn’t question John’s strategy for entry or his cognitive thought process that led to their current position; he solitarily parts his lips to give his muted gratitudes to the entity watching above him. The interpretation of divine intervention most likely had an occurrence in the moments before, perhaps tempting John to risk the shrouding secrecy in favour of a pleasant morning. Regardless, Santino appreciates it. However, the expression of restlessness on John’s damaged features forces the Italian from his musings. He positions himself to face John and his sleep-deprived frown, a completed palette of muted grays painted across his skin. Santino buries his face partially into his pillow, watching John with an esteemed gaze. John twists his thoughts away from the ceiling and focuses on Santino, tiredly moving his body alongside them.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?” Santino yawns, covering his mouth with the backside of his hand. John grumbles, his explanation about discomfiture and their shared affair. Santino brushes his fingers against John’s cheek carefully, as he would a hound. He chuckles softly, remembering Ares’ fondness considering their dog, whom she has attempted to name without a proper avail. They stay quiet until John finally moves, eliciting a groan from his partner at the prospect of temporary isolation. John instead reaches his hand around Santino’s back and pulls him closer wordlessly, slipping a hand gently beneath his shirt. The Italian’s eyes close at the immediate desired attention, the spread of fingers on his torso making him feel worshiped. Before they can proceed, a loud noise, a resemblance to a shattered plate apparent, is heard.

“Dolores probably dropped something. _Continua, per favore._ ” Santino holds John’s wrist and urges for escalation, though John falters when the sound emerges again. The Italian sighs and realized John, a man of focus, precision, and sheer determination would never adhere to his wishes unless the noise is investigated. Therefore, he admits defeat and leaves the bedsheets with John, the excitement in his stomach erasing as spontaneously as it appeared. The two departure from the sanctuary of the disguising bedroom, bodies still close in proximity as they descend the staircase. When another sound emerges, John gestures for Santino to remain behind him and softly touches the hardwood floors, his direction being that of the mysterious shatterings.

John hides behind the door frame, listening as Diablo berates Elaine surrounding her glaring mistakes. He possesses a childlike worry about his demeanour, something that Santino agonizes. He reaches outwards in a small movement of his hand, interlocking the tips of his fingers with the spaces of John’s more tortured ones.

“Sometimes I think you do these things on purpose. Maybe you like it when I get mad, or break the dishes, or do anything that labels me the villain,” Santino shuts his eyes in avoidance of the scene before him caused by Diablo; John’s withering composure, “but it’s clear you deserve this.” There is another collision that makes Elaine begin to give shuddered wails, muffling them with her hands. John stays motionless without a choice in the decision, Santino realizing that only uncertainty and terror can make the Baba Yaga yield. The irony of John’s own tactics used against him would provide laughter for his boyfriend but, given the dangerous circumstances, the latter remains quiet. Then, to end the horrific display of violence, Diablo summons the nerve to apologize, causing Elaine to hush herself in frightened confusion. It is purely strategic; an action to stop the persistence of the crying.

Beside Santino, John is stuck in a faltering memory; the times when his mother was never abused and seemed content in his father’s small trailer. It was quiet and cramped, with dirty laundry piles accompanying each passing week, but it was home in its most primitive and simplistic definition. There was a stream beside a beautiful plain, and John sincerely wishes that he could be in the distant obscurity of the memory than the troublesome reality. He stops when Santino presses his fingertips gently to his shoulder, alerting him of the present. When he finds the motivation needed to regain movement in his legs, he steps into the kitchen silently with Santino.

The situation has ended with Diablo seated at the dining table and Elaine proceeding her duties of cleaning the dishes. The effects of the previous fight thicken the vicinity with an underlying tension of grief and disarray. Santino remains silent, focused on John’s fists, slowly pressurized then abandoned. His knuckles become a display of white, comparable the drugs Santino has seen during his business ventures in alleyways, to a pigmented, calmer tone. Diablo seems enamoured with the newspaper placed before him that he doesn’t consider his stepson’s seething loathings, though the Italian cannot overlook their intensities. He realizes both he and John have been standing quietly, and thus suspiciously, for several seconds and decides to seat himself. John follows his movements shortly, uncombed hair covering his face in tumbles of unkempt onyx.

“Where’s Dolores?” Santino questions, partially because of curiosity yet also genuine fear of her safety. John notices the faint emotion in his voice and glances with a downscaled surprised expression, pondering the possibility that his boyfriend had already managed to create a relationship with his sister. He mourns for the conclusion that if his mother was more attentive and his stepfather was kinder, things would be different.

“Outside in her shed, why? Hoping you’ll see her bent over her canvases,” Diablo laughs at the crude joke, though Santino only feels discomfort and worry at the anonymity of John’s thoughts. He replies that he simply wanted to watch Dolores’ process of painting, claiming it was remarkably professional and entrancing. Diablo retorts with sentences of a sexual nature, thus providing an addition of unease to Santino’s already irritated stomach, “I wouldn’t get too excited over Dolores if I were you. Wick here seems much more interested in men than that broad is.”

John’s shoulder blades shift from panic, but he carefully pacifies himself before any negative impressions can occur. Santino is prepared to settle a hand on John’s knee, but when Elaine arrives at the table, each weak hand expertly occupied with numerous plates, his doubts and consternations emerge. As Diablo speaks incessantly (his general format is rehashed insults at the expense of others disguised flimsily as truthful jokes), Santino reviews how his planned, and failed, comfort tactic began. It was in the Hotel Continental, and a fight had ensued which resulted in three memberships being revoked. John was the collateral damage of the event, with a shard of absinthe stabbed securely between two ribs. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the injury or a lack of sleep culminating into complete debilitation, but when the relatively gentle doctor had left the room, John began to inhale quite profoundly and profusely. Santino had recognized this as a form of restricted crying, and, due to the uncertainty of how to react, placed his hand on John’s leg. It became generally accepted amongst the two from onwards that the action was to be repeated, as it was pleasantly sensitive and tender in their lifetimes of absolute cruelty. Somehow, the serenity of the reminiscence captivates Santino until he is rendered unable to even correctly eat the food before him.

“Are you going to eat that shit or just stare at it?” Diablo’s voice lures Santino from the memory and makes him embarrassingly aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t answer, mainly because he knows Diablo wouldn’t respect his words and chews the breakfast. He compliments Elaine’s cooking, which creates an expression of faltering sadness on the woman’s features. Diablo decides to vocalize his distaste for the meal then and informs the group that he needs to leave for the police station, despite its lack of occupants in the harsh mornings. John, surprisingly, speaks.

“I’ll go with you.” Santino examines John’s content figure, confused at the short statement. Diablo shrugs his indifference, tells John a rather uncomplicated insult, then they both depart. The realization makes itself apparent only after Santino has retreated to his bedroom to return Ares’ multitude of texts; John went merely to fight Diablo without the inconvenience of witnesses.

*  
John remains silent during the drive towards the station. He solely glimpses at his stepfather in occasional moments, eliciting a grimace from himself numerous times. It is a mildly terrifying thought; a man who continuously assaults his wife is an officer assigned with keeping the justice. John stares through the window to maintain the unsteady tranquility, focusing on the passing shrubbery and buildings as they become mixed into an extraordinary disposition similar to that of watercolors. Santino introduced him the medium at an art gallery, and the faded memory makes John feel slightly calmer.

Then the engine sputters and finally ceases, halting in the parking lot of Oklahoma’s police department. John examines the quiet structure as he exits the car, preparing himself by weaponizing ordinary objects. The moment he enters, he already utilizes a stapler (blocking the esophagus would require little effort), a slightly damaged desktop computer (blunt force applied toward the backside of the head would be incredibly quick in terms of execution), and a jar filled of sharpened pencils (because classics, from music to weapons, never get old.) Diablo reaches his desk, then promptly seats himself into his chair. There is a moment of silence in which John thinks about disrupting in favour of a closed fist to a jawline.

“This is your workplace?” John asks though he comprehends his voice sounds obvious in tone. Somehow delaying the inevitable makes this situation considerably more manageable to deal with. John ponders the exact reason why striking his stepfather is more daunting than any other opponent he’s faced, yet he cannot find the proper answer. He is namely distressed at his worriedness, a feeling of disgust beginning to overtake him.

“After you abandoned your mother, I was promoted chief. I would have told you, but you were off getting busy in the showers with the Marines.” Diablo explains as John passes a cell, specifically one with a familiar youthful face. The female features are reddened with tears, and their owner seems visibly frightened. John recognizes it as the unknown teenager he had almost killed and decides to halt his stride. He looks at her huddled form, knees pressed against her chest with several whimpers escaping her lips.

“Are you okay?” John is unsure how to address the teenager, yet he feels he must. Her shuddering body turns and faces him, quiet unease setting into the atmosphere. She tucks her contours into her arms, keeping them hidden as she responds.

“Please don’t do what he did,” John prompts her to continue, “he keeps flirting with me and telling me I can’t call my mom.” Her southern accent is depressed, and she seems hopeless, something that makes John pause. He observes the cell, noting its locked status and lack of key nearby. John assumes, since his stepfather is the chief officer, he would possess the key needed. He glances at the female once more, before leaving her.

He examines the multiple empty rooms; the breakroom only has bitter coffee and a decorative, plastic plant, the conference room is dimmed, and the central area of activity is vacant, aside from Diablo. Because of the absence of a keyring, John presumes that it is inside Diablo’s office, the only unchecked room. He tells his stepfather a faltering alibi of needing the restrooms, then leaves down a hallway in search for the office. When John does find it, he decides not to shake the locked spring lock loudly as it would attract attention. Instead, he uses the card in his wallet (though irrelevant, a card is not his preferred method of payment, as it gives his enemies a way to track his location. However, Winston claimed that the card came with a different name, keeping a veil of anonymity) and swipes through the thin crack between the door and its frame. The door unlocks faintly, allowing access into the office.

He enters it quietly, finding the keyring easily. It is situated between two stacks of scattered, incompleted papers, Carefully he takes the keys and places them deeply into his palm, before covering them securely with his fingers. This method prevents the keys from creating noise, but before John can use it effectively, he hears footsteps behind him, a familiar heaviness in each solitary pace. Reflexively, John uses the unopened lights to his advantage. He quickly hides behind the doorway and holds his breath, realizing that the present moment is perfect to fight Diablo. However, when Diablo enters the room, he stands silently, similar to a wolf scouting for its prey. There is a moment of quiet before Diablo speaks.

“I know you’re in here, Wick. Now, you better be standing in front of me like a man, or else _te venceré_ _peor que tu madre._ ” John grabs the handle of the spring lock before him and listens attentively to the sound of Diablo’s steps. When a single march of the optimal volume occurs, John swiftly swings the door harshly, striking Diablo with his force. His stepfather falls backwards, slamming his head on his desk. John examines Diablo’s hunched form and quickly leaves, deciding to prioritize the abused girl in his custody.

He meets with the anonymous girl shortly, placing multiple keys into the lock before Diablo returns. He seems weakened severely, but the rage in his eyes overpower his nerves. John sets the keys within the teenager’s petite hand, giving her a stare. Wordlessly, he tells her to continue trying different keys and when she does finally leave, to immediately run from the unfair disaster that is Oklahoma.

“You are a worthless piece of shit, Wick. Just like your fucking dad.” Diablo sighs, stumbling as he soothes the back of his head. John, perhaps for the first time since Daisy had been slaughtered, feels the unbearable sense of vengeance piercing his mind. He faces his stepfather with clenched fists.

“Don’t talk about him.” The response is simplistic enough, though the evident agitation in John’s voice provides Diablo a chance to taunt him. Diablo proceeds speaking harshly of the working man; his illness and untimely death was nothing but deserved, and John was comparably, almost identically, feeble to him. John decides to punch Diablo before his speech concludes, using the opportunity of the element of surprise to its fullest. His stepfather’s figure jerks backwards, nevertheless he recovers speedily. A clenched fist is about to collide with John’s stomach, yet he catches it swiftly and twists its wrist furiously, hearing a strange, rapid noise. John kicks Diablo’s shin, causing the senior man to sink towards the ground. The American holds a palm threateningly near Diablo’s throat, his grasp of the man’s shoulder tightening within every second.

Between his harsh breaths, Diablo speaks.

“I wonder if beating up your old man somehow makes you feel better? Like seeing the blood? Or maybe it’s that rush of adrenaline? C’mon, Wick, somehow I know you just like something sick about this.” John falters, lowering his closed hand as the grievous words resonate within him. He knows the tanned man, nose broken and blood tainting his teeth, is trying to elicit a reaction, yet his truths remain shocking. It is quite gruesome; a son holding his parental figure in his gripping hands. John didn’t want to encounter any violence, much less in his own hometown, yet he is still clutching Diablo. Perhaps it isn’t indeed himself, but rather, the Baba Yaga’s terrifying presence seeping into his actions.

Diablo uses the stillness of the atmosphere and attacks John, the bottom of a pistol slams into the taller man’s cheek. John drops Diablo suddenly, stepping backwards at the brutal force. He swipes at the wound, discovering warm blood slowly peering from it. His calf is abused then, with a foot clashing with the hardened flesh. John falls, his bruised face smashing against the floor. From his position, he observes the unnamed teenager’s empty cell, slightly gladdened by her departure from the station. Quickly, he twists himself onto his spine, immediately seeing the bullet hole of a presumably loaded gun pointing towards him.

“Nice one, fucker. Tried to get a hold of me, and you’re still on the floor. I expected as much from a Wick,” Diablo sputters, only having a calloused middle finger of John’s damaged hand in response. The pistol lowers then, leaving John both confounded and unsteady. Diablo prohibits John from the station and spits loudly in his direction as he struggles to process the situation, “you know the only reason I’m letting you go without a nine millimeter in your head?”

“No.” John doesn’t want the answer.

“Because that’d be too quick, and I’d really regret seeing you die without having some fun beforehand.” Diablo turns to walk towards his office without remorse, leaving John by his lonesome. John wordlessly exits the workplace and regards the oblivious outside surroundings he is confronted with. The sky is still a melancholy gray, and the chances of rain continue to prevail their plausibility. He looks into a mostly vacant parking lot, the faintest ghost of a droplet wetting his hair.

*  
“I’ve only ever drawn faces and flowers, so I’m sorry in advance if the fur seems off,” Dolores explains inside her oasis of artwork and neverending techniques. Her hands move elegantly amongst the canvas, frantic strokes of lead and pewter creating the illusion of short hairs. Santino is beside her, watching with an enthralled gaze as the brush cascades into a beautifully depressing oblivion. He is seated beside the shed’s exclusive window, the darkening clouds providing a challenge as they are blocking Dolores’ sole light source. However, there is a critically broken lamp stored beneath several sheets of paper that Dolores intends to use once complete blackness is achieved.

“It looks lovely, Dolores. I cannot understand why you hide your expertise in this shed. I know respectable collectors that would pay thousands merely for your sketches.” Dolores blushes from the praise, biting her smiling lips. She swirls her paint into the muddied water beside her, shrugging at the compliments. Santino doesn’t inform her that most of the said collectors made their wealthy profits from breaking the fingers of the men beneath them.

“I would believe you,” Dolores’ voice is soft and more tired than it previously was, “but Diablo says otherwise. I couldn’t get a dollar from a guy if I jerked him off, after all.” Santino watches her features as they plaster themselves with a saddened mood, eyelids turning heavy as she ponders the statement. The Italian dismisses her thoughts, claiming that Diablo is incredibly wrong in his views of the woman’s pieces.

“So,” Dolores clears her throat, signifying the changing of topics, “I was wondering if you and Johnny wanted to go to a party tonight? His old friend, Henry- you probably haven’t met him- is throwing one. He’s really excited about John coming back home for a bit; enough to make him an excuse to drink until morning.” Santino chuckles at Dolores’ playful detest of Henry, then claims he would enjoy the experience of an Oklahoman reunion. The sky, despite the afternoon barely beginning, obscures entirely, halting the progress of the mammalian depiction before Dolores. She asks Santino to retrieve the lamp, scrutinizing her painting, distortions occurring due to the intense darkness of the room.

Her wishes are halted as a knock emerges from behind the door.

“Dolores? Is Santino with you?” Elaine’s faint voice speaks. She makes a small noise when Santino replies for the Wick daughter, then asks for his presence. He quickly grabs the lamp, gives it to Dolores, then leaves to speak with her mother. She invites Santino inside, wherein she leads him to the sitting room he has already been acquainted with. She gestures for him to sit, then carefully opens the glass doors of the display cupboard with delicate fingers.

“I’ve seen the photographs,” Santino is uncertain of Elaine’s next movements, “Dolores has a surprising talent in photography.” Elaine smiles weakly, taking several pictures of frail children into her palms. She seats herself beside Santino, showing him the chosen photographs. As she shuffles through them, she shows one depicting a handsome man. He seems preoccupied with someone, so his head is tilted slightly, revealing a jawline with a similar definition to John’s. In fact, almost every feature is identical to John. His darker eyes display a slant, and he has a serious demeanour to him. The only outlier is his hair, which is combed tightly, unlike John’s more unkempt locks. The greys and blacks confirm that the picture is old, though the date is not specified.

“I took this one,” Elaine’s eyes barely conceal the tears from cascading down her cheeks, “he was John’s dad. He used to work in the Marines, but he never liked fighting. He never raised his voice or got into arguments. He was a good man. You would have loved him.” Santino nods, looking at the picture with a dimmed depression. He does appear young and compassionate, though his death only shrouds these observations with doubt.

“I am certain I would have.” Santino, suddenly quite worried about Elaine’s unsteady composure, stays silent as said woman grabs his forearm.

“You seem like a sweet man,” Elaine speaks with ignorance, though Santino listens quietly, “please, leave. You don’t deserve being here, not in this godforsaken town. We are ugly people Santino, disgustingly cold and terrible. Diablo is a bastard, and I’m afraid John is slowly becoming like him. At least he’s intelligent; if I left this hellhole, I wouldn’t want to return either.”

Santino begins to shiver subtly, unsure why Elaine’s words are piercing through him. He is overcome with a shock as John’s mother begins to wail, yet her tone remains unwavering. Santino wants to leave, the image of a broken woman not being appreciated. However, he still doesn’t run, for no plausible reason.

“I hate this life, Santino. Do you know how hard it is to be abused every goddamn day? It’s a fucking miracle I’m not dead on the floor with a bullet in my skull. So please, Santino,” Elaine reaches outwards and caresses Santino’s cheek with her thumb, “leave.” Suddenly, the nerves in Santino’s legs begin to work, and he finds the motivation to stand up and expresses his need to see John. Elaine doesn’t attempt to persuade him, but rather, wails to herself as Santino exits Diablo’s house. And, of course, it rains.

*  
John likes when it rains; the droplets, alongside their sounds of rushing feet, make him forget his functions to think cognitively, leaving him in a state of calmness. When he was younger, his father would always give him his coat whenever it began to rain. The oversized layer would often weight on John’s shoulders, meaning his footsteps would slow and he would feel truly old. However, when his father began to show symptoms of cancer, John would give the coat back, claiming the fabric wasn’t a necessity. When his father finally died, John kept the jacket but never wore it. It is currently placed in the attic, amongst the photographs of two children sitting beside rivers and women who died too suddenly. However, with more relevancy, John likes when it rains.

He is seated on a bench near the lake, deciding that perching on the boardwalk would only provide the water easier access to his skin. His hands are securely in his pockets, whilst his attention is directed to the ripples of puddles as more droplets accumulate into them. He isn’t entirely subdued; his shaking hands and slowly bruising face is evidence of his weariness. His situation becomes more unbearable when he hears frantic footsteps, signalling that he would have company. He doesn’t like appearing pitiful nor vulnerable in front of others, his occupation proves this to be a rational fear, and he composes himself. He doesn’t expect a frightened Santino gasping for breath in the pouring, increasingly cold water.

The two become aware of one another with a stilted silence. Santino’s exhausted expression transforms into debilitated gratitude, thankful that he isn’t alone. John moves on the bench, allowing Santino a spacious seat beside him. The Italian mouths his response and walks towards him, inelegantly flopping onto the splintering wood. They almost automatically position themselves so that Santino’s head is resting on John’s broad shoulder, their fingers interlaced. Perhaps they are in the freezing rain, but the privacy is overpowering the potential risk of hypothermia.

“Why are you here?” John asks, removing a single hand from his pocket to place it around Santino’s waist. The Italian accepts the touch and lets his eyelids flutter closed.

“Elaine showed me a picture of your father.” Santino feels John’s tensed grip, still comfortable despite the pressure.

“Did she cry,” John explains his question once Santino gives him a suspicious glance, “she always cries when she looks at Dad. It used to scare me when I was younger. Now, I only understand her.” Santino answers his inquiry, then tilts his chin upwards, suddenly energized with concern as John’s recent bruise. He examines the forming purple pigment, enragement and worry filling his eyes.

“Who punched you?” Santino begins to think of the possible future wherein the couple leaves Oklahoma immediately, and Ares is given the assignment of killing John’s perpetrator.

“I got into a fight- just a man who drank too much.” John lies, the emotions of both guilt and betrayal beginning to materialize in his intestines. He doesn’t comprehend why he lied; Diablo isn’t terrifying to him. However, the thought of his stepfather hitting him makes him flinch, therefore he doesn’t believe in the statement. Santino parts his lips to speak, though he refrains from saying anything. He only raises his hand and traces the wound, frowning as John winces.

“ _Possiamo andare, John._ ” Santino’s words have a sincerity, as though he is attempting to assure John that he would not be judgemental of his answer. The American shrugs then clears his throat.

“I don’t want to abandon my family again. I’ve already been such a weak son to them.” John’s voice is suppressed to an isolated whisper, and Santino cannot contain his anger any longer. He groans, finally allowing his temperament to seep through.

“Diablo called you weak! He’s been making you feel guilty this entire trip,” Santino’s lips begin to quiver with the relief of displaying his anger, “you don’t actually believe him, do you? And even if you do, do you think you deserve it? Enduring the absolute torture of staying with your family on the basis of you not wanting to abandon them again?” John, apparently shocked by the sudden outburst, decides to answer with his own malicious intent through the surrounding rainfall.

“Diablo is the only person who’s been terrible to you on this trip, not my mom,” John watches as Santino stands in an effort to distance himself, “and neither has Dolores. And, personally, I don’t think staying with them is as bad as you say it is! And I know that you and Gianna don’t have the best relationship, so you don’t get to dictate anything between my family and me!” Before John can adequately recognize and control his actions, he stands upright with an intimidating posture. Santino doesn’t display any anticipated fear through his body language, yet his umber eyes do have an afraid glint inside them.

“John, you’re scared of them finding out I’m your boyfriend! Do you not comprehend how that makes me feel about them, about you? I’m supposed to be someone you care about, but here you are, yelling at me for telling you the truth! You don’t deserve to be degraded by your father every time you talk to him! You don’t deserve to have a mother that cries in front of you! You don’t deserve any of this!” Santino shouts, a blushing tint spreading across his cheeks in a pitiful signifier of his passion. John isn’t aware of the Italian’s budding tears, mostly due to the rain blurring most of his vision. He proceeds to exclaim harshly, overlooking the soreness of his throat.

“Sorry, but it’s tough to listen to your honesty when you come from such an accomplishment of a family yourself! Your sister hates you, your mother secludes herself from you, and your father can barely remember you!” John prepares himself for a retort, but when silence ensues, he finally notices Santino’s hunched, crumbled composure.

“Fuck you, John.” Santino turns away from John, leaving a hushed regret of the entire argument lingering. John stays quiet because he is unsure of how to respond and he definitely cannot resort to fists. Not because he is inexperienced, but instead, he is not like Diablo. John completely grasps the reason for Santino’s hateful words; he used a secret built on trust and support against him. It was told after John and Santino had woken up together in the middle of the night, a curiosity sparking between the partners. John had divulged information about Helen; her smile and laughter were John’s favourite features about her. In return, Santino spoke about his dementia-ridden father and how he was affected by a parental figure never quite remembering him. It was an essential part of their relationship; however, John utterly desecrated it in the name of winning a futile fight.

“Santino! I saw you run off! Is everything okay?” Dolores sprints underneath the rain, two arms held protectively above her groomed hair. The rain slows its speed, and soon the droplets become desultory in their patterns. Santino takes a deep breath, shoulder hitching unexpectedly by a shudder. He then turns to face Dolores with reddened eyes, acting as though nothing is wrong.

“Dolores, I apologize. I simply wanted to find John.” Santino’s excuse isn’t too specific, a tactic that most members of the assassin underworld use to ensure their lie is believed. Dolores nods, finding refuge from the clearing rain near the stump of a tree. Santino moves past John, not giving him a parting glance as he positions himself beside Dolores.

“Mom was crying when I came in. I guessed she might have scared you off. She has a tendency to do that to people.” Dolores looks over his shoulder to Santino. There is a prevalent discomfort in the ambience, one that prolongs until Dolores attempts to absolve it, “I think we should go to Henry’s party tonight.”

“Henry’s having a party?” John asks, confused. Dolores claims that he planned it once he knew of her brother’s temporary return. There exists a moment in which John realizes he hadn’t spoken with Henry throughout the day, and there lies a dejection in that fact. He understands that many things could have been done, but he allowed his anger to consume him and concluded most of his precious hours gaining a damaged eye and a ban from a police station.

“It’s in that barn near the outskirts of town; the one that Alex once tried to sleep in for a night,” Dolores reminisces of the event, though before Santino can get a hint of excitement at meeting the man who is discovered to be Henry’s brother, the woman explains that he died last October. John takes the information thoughtfully, thinking that Henry may have got into drugs as a result of the traumatic experience of losing a family member, “I just assumed we could relax at the party.”

“Let’s go then,” Santino decides for both himself and his partner, “a drink and music would ease my nerves.” Dolores smiles happily, saying that Henry’s musical tastes are exemplary. Santino leaves with John’s sister, refusing to gaze in his direction as they walk. John dislikes the rain from then on.

*  
The barn is crowded with influenced adults, and some individuals have to depart from the insides to be able to breathe correctly. There is a definite scent of hard liquor and marijuana, though the deafening music, most likely from the eighties, make the odors obsolete. When John enters the vicinity, a loud yell overtakes the patrons as they greet him. Santino uses the opportunity of huddled civilians surrounding John to walk towards the alcohol, with a majority of the beverages consisting of beer and cheap whiskeys. The Italian purses his lips in disgust, though he equips himself with a plastic cup nonetheless. Santino closes his eyes and takes a large gulp, hoping intoxication would overcome him quickly. When he lifts his eyelids, he discerns a male figure before him.

“So you’re Santino? Never thought you’d be taller than me,” the blonde man produces a palm splayed open, “I’m Henry.” Santino takes his hand, his tight grip showing his seething anger at the disruption of his activity. Henry exaggeratingly shakes his hand, eliciting a barely noticeable smile from Santino.

“I’ve heard of you,” the Italian absentmindedly sips at the beer, grimacing, “this is a lovely party.” Henry shrugs at the compliment, undoubtedly thankful for the kind words. Santino didn’t exactly falsify his feelings; the event is extravagant in comparison to a meal at a diner or a makeout session near a lake. However, the timing of such a happening is terrible, and the drink selection isn’t impressive.

“John told me you and he are real close,” Santino bites the plastic between his teeth, before swallowing a large amount of beer, “and I got to say; I can see why.” Multiple queries prepare themselves in Santino’s mind, though he only communicates one.

“What do you mean?” Santino questions, watching as Henry examines his frame. He is quite confused, though that could be the grainy beer beginning to blur his already sporadic thought process.

“I mean,” Henry steps closer, waiting until the music bursting into a distracting rhythm, “you look like his type.” Santino’s eyes widen, causing Henry to laugh giddily. He explains that Santino possesses features John enjoys, though primarily on women. Tanned skin and petite forms seem to be amongst John’s favourite physical features, though this information is provided by his friend, who is probably incredibly drunk. Santino responds with hesitance and tells Henry that they are merely friends. Henry raises his hands and expresses that he isn’t accusing the either of them from being fags.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Santino stumbles as he speaks, an indicator of his inebriated state, “I wouldn’t be offended if you did!” Henry laughs until he begins to cough, screaming over the volume of the music of how Santino is a great comedian.

“Dolly! You never told me John’s friend was so funny!” Henry yells, causing Dolores to brush off his comments. She is currently speaking with John, a bright enthusiasm in her voice as she, alongside other residents, inquire about the differences between New York and Oklahoma. Dolores keeps the conversation focused on the women, wondering about the clothes they wear and how their appearances are affected by expensive makeup. John doesn’t have spectacular answers, with most of them being contained to monosyllabic words.

“Santino always talks about this girl; Ares,” her friends continuously voice their admirations for the interesting name, “is she as nice as he says she is?” John remembers a room filled with mirrors, reflecting every slash of a sleek woman’s blade. However, the expression of Dolores’ infatuation with the mysterious woman seems to delay John’s response.

“She’s a skilled fighter, though she doesn’t speak often.” Dolores’ enraptured state amplifies, her imagination forming millions of appearances and voices for Ares. Before John can construct another vague answer, the music begins to slow into a romantic tempo. Henry emerges from between two affectionate dancers, currently pressing one another against any immovable object. His hair is tousled from pushing against his unnamed invitees. Beside him is Santino, slightly intoxicated as proven by the subtle sway of his imbalanced body.

“Dolly, care for a dance?” Henry requests. Dolores hesitates at the blunt offering, and John immediately recognizes this as her not finding Henry attractive or enticing enough. Her friends begin to tease her, practically pushing her closer with their flirtatious remarks. Dolores clears her throat and accepts the invitation, disappearing into the crowd as her friends shout loudly about her exciting future. John finds the situation pitiful; Dolores has always deserved better than Henry, so seeing her settle sets a pained feeling in his stomach.

“It’s a shame you’re only standing here. This song is quite nice.” Santino articulates the words through his inebriation. John glances at his disheveled figure, but that only means his hair is moderately messed by his fingers and his eyelids are lower than average. John once asked how Santino could maintain his appearance whilst still boasting several cups of red wine. Santino claimed that growing with a family consistently underneath the scrutinization of an entire underworld helped him develop his skill. The American presently observes Santino’s languid facial features, a misery making itself known.

“Olivia Newton. Henry loves her music. I do too.” Santino looks at John with blurred vision, viewing his downwards tilted chin. They both feel guilty, but the Italian apprehends that John is entirely destroyed. Santino is too prideful to try and resolve the issue, yet he desires a moment with John wherein nobody is scrutinizing either of them. Therefore, Santino, in his mild drunkenness, presses his hand atop John’s to display his desires without opening his mouth. John studies Santino’s fingers flush against his and wordlessly turns his hand, setting their palms together.

“I never knew you liked Olivia Newton.” They stay beside the wall, hidden by the shadows since most of the homemade decorations and lights (repurposed from their original Christmas uses) illuminate the middle of the barn. They don’t instantly dance with their bodies huddled together, Santino’s head lying on his boyfriend’s shoulder. However, they conclude in the described position after merely a minute, since even arguments can be drowned by music.

Santino’s breaths relax into an endearing pace, the warmth of the previously consumed beer becoming known to John as it touches his exposed neck. His left hand is securely between Santino’s shoulder blades, keeping him protectively against his chest. Meanwhile, his right hand is intermingled with Santino’s, their fingers clasped. The rhythm becomes nonexistent as the two men absentmindedly sway from their feet, the movement calming their senses of relief and excitement at the physical affection. Santino thinks of a lavish Continental meeting place, where the party’s barnyard interior is replaced with dimmed lights and a steady jazz band. John doesn’t necessarily think anything; the feeling of Santino’s weight with his has him grounded in reality.

Before the song can conclude, a loud confrontation begins, bringing attention to the center of the floor. John pushes himself away from Santino, who starts to worry. The voice sounds familiar to the couple, which indicates something serious is occurring. John goes to the direction of the fight and is met with Dolores’ figure safely behind Henry’s frame, defending herself from the man, who seems to be causing a commotion.

“Come on, Dolores. You seem popular around town, and I want to see what the fuss is all about.” The man is identified as the same one who approached Santino with a violent manner in the diner. John also faintly remembers him being amongst the drug dealers that fought Henry’s gang then fled the scene once police officers arrived.

“This is our turf, buddy. You need to leave, or else things might get heated.” Henry tries to intimidate, though the frightening man laughs. He gives a muttered reply then reaches for his pocket, producing a small knife. As he swings the sharp metal, a gunshot is heard, revealing that he isn’t by his lonesome. The noises make the patrons sprint in separate directions, attempting to leave before they get accidentally injured. John rushes for Dolores, who is shocked by the scarring events. John quickly grabs her forearm, roughly leading her to Santino. He speaks with a courage that makes Dolores wonder if this situation has normalized itself with him. The thought terrifies her, but she remains quiet.

“Dolores, take Santino to the running path near the river. Just keep yourselves far from here,” John gestures for the two to escape into the encompassing woods, “I’ll help Henry disarm those men.” Dolores nods, unable to formulate the correct response. Santino speaks for her.

“John, you’re coming with us!” The American shakes his head then points away from the barn.

“I’m not, Santino, and we’re not going to fight about this! Now, go!” John commands, not giving Santino a chance to refuse. Dolores clutches Santino’s hand and runs with him, holding her head downwards to prevent from being hit with stray bullets. As the jerking noises persist, the two hasten farther away from the barn, leaving John behind them.

*  
They worry about John as they pant deeply beside the river. The two had been running for several minutes, with their evidence being their strained legs and choking throats. The location is different since there is an absence of a boardwalk. The trees also seem thicker, with their barks being both flakier and weaker. Dolores covers her mouth and, before she can explain her reasoning to Santino, she runs towards the river and vomits into its water. Santino watches with pity, knowing that Dolores is obviously not desensitized to the sounds of bullets and petrified screaming. Santino needs to calm himself, so he kneels to the gravel pathway, placing his forehead to his knee.

“Will John be okay? I mean, those were actual weapons, Santino! Johnny can’t go against a gunman!” Dolores rambles, eyes beginning to redden from her forming tears.

“He can,” Santino reassures Dolores with the truth, “but we need to focus on you. Are you okay?” Dolores is about to reply, though she pauses and coughs the remaining entrails of her puke. She spits, trying to regain control of her thoughts.

“I will be, it’s just,” Dolores begins to whimper, “I’ve never heard a gunshot before! I thought it would be quieter than it was! It’s like I can still hear it; is that normal? Why did Johnny act so calm about everything? Is this what New York is like all the time?” Santino stays silent as Dolores struggles to relax, wiping the tears that progressively sodden her cheeks.

“It’s okay Dolores. The sound is new to your ears; you’ll hear it for a while,” Santino gently caresses Dolores’ back as she vomits again, “and John’s been in the Marines. He’s heard gunshots before. I promise New York isn’t so hectic.” The sound of rustling causes the two to face its direction immediately. Relief consumes the two as John presents himself a fresh, thin slit on his right cheek.

“Johnny! You’re okay!” Dolores stumbles as she stands, legs still weakened from her fast journey. She mainly falls onto John, embracing him with her arms. She presses her face into his chest, body shaking violently as she begins to wail from traumatism. John hugs her back, closing his eyes as he relishes in her touch. When she removes herself, Dolores decides that the trio should collectively sleep outside of Diablo’s house. Santino agrees though he doesn’t anticipate Dolores taking off her sweater and placing in on the ground. She sets her head onto the sweater, informing the two men that she doesn’t have the energy to find any other place to sleep. Dolores closes her eyes and falls into a slumber surprisingly quickly.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Santino says, though not with the same malice as earlier. He is sitting with John, both their backs are leaning against the stump of a tree.

“You’re right.” John cannot defend himself, nor does he want to. Even though they were both certain he could survive a fight with unskilled shooters, John still did something without much thought.

“You could have died.” Santino croaks, unsure why he is still afraid. John is safe, but there still remains a feeling of dread.

“I’m sorry,” John replies. Santino glimpses at him, lips quivering slightly

“I know.” Santino is exhausted from fighting. He only wants to return to New York where he can hold John and kiss him without fear of being attacked.

“Not just for staying behind. For saying those things about your family.”

“I know.”

“I was being stupid, but that’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” John reaches for Santino’s hand, which he is able to obtain. The Italian supports his head by resting it on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“No,” Santino moves his head slightly to allow for his lips to touch John’s skin. He gently kisses the spot he is able to reach, “rest now. Fighting is tomorrow’s worry.” John accepts the answer as he stares forward, staying alert in the likely scenario that somebody threatening might walk past the group.

He can only stay awake for several minutes before he sleeps, leaving the responsibility on Santino. The Italian doesn’t complain, allowing John the simple privilege of napping. He indulges in the moment of peace when John reflexively brings Santino’s body closer to him in his sleep. There is no resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dictionary  
> “Continua, per favore.” - “Continue, please.”  
> “Te venceré peor que tu madre.” - “I’ll beat you worse than your mother.”  
> “Possiamo andare, John.” - “We can go, John.”
> 
> Small Detail(s):  
> Alex is an easter egg to Alex Winter, whom Keanu Reeves played alongside in the movies “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” and “Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.”  
> Diablo speaks Spanish, which is a given since his name derives from Spanish roots
> 
> Once more, thank you for the neverending support on previous chapters! I spent so long on this chapter and I hope you all enjoy it! Also, I may not be able to update for a while since exams are coming and schoolwork is becoming more pressuring! However, I still have more chapters to write! Thank you for being patient with me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is coming to an end quite soon (perhaps the next chapter if my outline is to be followed closely) and I just wanted to thank every single person who read, gave a kudos, bookmarked, and/or commented before the grand finale. You guys are all amazing and I truly appreciate you all.

The following days aren’t as eventful as the first three. A majority of Santino’s time was spent separate from John, studying Dolores technique and artwork on a commission that never seemed to satisfy the woman, and avoiding Elaine after her haunting breakdown before him. John’s time was spent talking with Henry, sharing and regaining their halted friendship over their hatreds for Diablo. Eventually, before the trip could cause any more unwanted damage to either of the men’s mental states, Elaine’s birthday approached. The night before, Dolores had shown the partners a painting she created as a present for the occasion; its focal point was of Elaine, surrounded by impressively detailed flowers familiar to the groupings nearby the creek. Santino praised the picture, admiring the brushwork and coloring. John attempted to appear professional and stuttered a response about values and lines which made the two friends laugh happily.

Presently, a radiant light is embracing Santino’s bedroom. John isn’t beside him, making the Italian worry at the possibility that John is attempting to continue to keep their relationship secretive by completely avoiding him. Before he can ponder the likelihood, a series of knocks forces him to compose himself. He clears his throat and speaks quietly, his voice mostly rough from slumber. Dolores enters the bedroom; her hair tightened lazily into a messy style. There are darkened bags underneath her eyes, and she seems too weakened by exhaustion to formulate a smile properly.

“Morning, Santino,” Dolores tilts her head softly downwards, revealing the canvas she has in her arms, “I thought you might want to see the finished copy.” Santino smiles from excitement, fending the weariness from his features by wiping the filth from the corners of his eyes. Dolores seats herself on the edge of the mattress, the painting facing her hunched chest. She prefaces the reveal by explaining she never made an animal the subject of her artwork. Santino rests his back upright onto the wooden frame behind him and gestures for Dolores to show her piece. Before she has time to twist her hands, thus moving the canvas, John becomes visible through the doorway. He notices Dolores, and a subtle blushing tint appears on his face.

“Morning.” John greets the two tiredly, realizing Santino isn’t alone as he presumed he would be. Dolores doesn’t quite comprehend the reason John would visit Santino a such an early moment in the day, yet she rationalizes that comfortable friends would do such a thing. The woman keeps the canvas securely in her arms, responding for both herself and Santino. John unsteadily walks to the mattress and places himself beside Dolores, fidgeting with his fingers as he finds a plausible excuse for his arrival.

“It’s Mom’s birthday.” He says merely instead, causing Dolores to nod. Santino’s eyebrows lift and explains he had forgotten about it, claiming he was too preoccupied with the beauty of Oklahoma. Only John notices the sarcasm in his tone which makes him chuckle faintly. Dolores states she needs to leave to prepare her gift and promptly exits the bedroom. Santino sighs and covers his face with his hands, letting a shaky laugh escape his throat.

“That was incredibly close,” Santino’s laugh ends with a yawn, “I felt your embarrassment. _Forse anche Dolores lo sentiva._ ” John playfully punches his shoulder.

“I didn’t think Dolores would be with you,” John’s blush subsides, “why was she here anyways?” Santino lies, saying she wanted to converse with him about painting techniques. John takes the apparent falsification without objections and leans towards Santino, the Italian caressing his cheek with his hand.

“There is a bigger problem on the table,” Santino says abruptly, “as you said; your mother’s birthday.” John’s body stiffens underneath Santino’s fingers, and there's a prolonged pause. The American finally decides to speak, though it is stilted.

“Finally. I can’t stand Diablo,” There is an unsteady chuckle amongst the two bred from the truth of the statement. The previous week had felt much longer than merely seven days, and there remains an unspoken rivalry of who wants to leave for the confines of New York more, “if it’s any constellation, the actual party is small and a few hours from now. When we leave for New York, it’ll be a new day; literally.” Santino laughs quietly at the joke but halts once he realizes his mistake.

“I didn’t get her anything.”

John shrugs and says, “You can just tell them we bought my gift together. Consider it a small portion of my debt to you,” Santino furrows his eyebrows, “remember when we would go to all those fancy art galas, and you would cover for me, because I was the moron who didn’t understand what the Mona Lisa was down to its values, by saying I only spoke Chinese. By the way, who knows that much about the Mona Lisa?” Santino smiles, forgetting reality for a slight moment, focusing merely on John’s words as he revisits the past that seems so far away.

“The connoisseurs that I had to negotiate with; I still can’t believe you called one of them a _testa di cazzo_ on the ride home.” Santino reminisces, something he hasn’t done in a long while. It feels familiar but distant, like reading a dusted story from childhood or looking at pictures of the younger versions of your friends. Santino purses his lips at the comparison because now he doesn’t appreciate Elaine’s old photos. Suddenly, like a devil on Earth’s soil, Diablo becomes visible in the doorway. John jerks backwards, the force causing Santino to yelp but remain his demeanour regardless. Diablo doesn’t appear to have seen their former position, yet he still seems pissed.

“What’re you doing in Santino’s room,” His first question, arguably the most important one, meets with silence. Santino raises his palms somewhat above the sheets and explains he and John simply wanted to talk about Elaine’s birthday, nothing more, “all right. You guys just looked like fairies, is all. Get dressed.”

“Where are we going?” John asks, though his question is unanswered as Diablo leaves. The two men face one another, realizing how both confused and worried they are. Santino reassures John despite himself, speaking about a million reasons to live the house but never genuinely believing a singular one.

*

John and Santino are seated on the splinting porch, hands tightly concealed within their pockets due to the winds. Dolores, who had also been invited to Diablo’s unexpected excursion, is clueless when it refers to information too. She is tired enough to ignore the hair strands falling before her features, which Santino presumes is the giveaway to not speak with her about anything complicated. They remain silent until Dolores formulates the words that were stray in her mind.

“You guys are leaving tonight,” there is a loose sigh that is rich with sadness and loss, “I’ll miss you both a lot.” Santino doesn’t want to lie to Dolores; she is perhaps the kindest woman he has had the pleasure of meeting. Therefore, he instead takes Dolores’ phone and carefully types his number, saying she can call him whenever she likes. He also suggests she can come to New York, disguising his true intention by claiming he would be returning the favour. Dolores smiles weakly at the digits, thanking Santino. Diablo voice emerges from behind them then; he orders them to stand with an insincere fashion that no father should have to his children. The trio, in unison, give Diablo a passage to the small steps down to the ground and towards the driveway.

“Where are we going?” John repeats, wordlessly accepting his role as the individual who would take shotgun. Nobody wanted to sit beside Diablo, so John made the sacrifice.

“Stop asking that question, Wick. Just be patient.” Diablo replies in a hoarse voice. He almost sounds panicked, though Santino doesn’t believe a man of his undeserved confidence could feel such an emotion. He sits beside Dolores, who seems practically eerily drowsy. Her distant attitude is similar to that of Elaine and Santino feels disgusted by the comparison, but that does not detract from its truth. As the car begins to drive, Santino’s phone rings. Startled, Santino denies the call and apologizes to everyone for its noise, before seeing who disrupted the silence. Santino doesn’t know how to react when he sees Ares’ name.

**Ares (11:13 AM):** Why did you not answer? Are you okay?

**Santino (11:13 AM):** You called me in a crowded car. Of course, I wouldn’t answer.

**Santino (11:13 AM):** Why did you call me anyway?

**Ares (11:14 AM):** I have something important to say; I was asking around about Oklahoma and its gangs, and I just found out there’s an old Camorra member near the address you’ve given me.

**Santino (11:14 AM):** Sorry to disappoint, but I already know. We met twice already; John even fought him.

**Ares (11:25 AM):** I fucked up. If you want, I could drive there and take care of business.

**Santino (11:25 AM):** Today is the last day we’re here, Ares.

**Ares (11:26 AM):** Then I’ll be waiting for you.

Santino diverts his gaze from his phone once he feels the car stop. Diablo is parking near a small thrift shop; somewhere Santino has never visited before. However, he hasn’t left Doores’ shed for most of the trip, so a majority of Oklahoma remains unknown to him. When he exits the car, slightly scared by Diablo’s strength when closing the door, his phone sends him one last notification.

**Ares (11:27 AM):** I’ve missed you, Santino.

The text makes Santino smile genuinely because, even if Ares used to call rampantly when Santino and John first began to date, even if she still does as such, he misses her dearly. The trip has worn him down, but within a few hours, it will be only a faint, unvisited memory. He walks inside the shop alongside Dolores, trailing behind John and his father. Based on the cheap quality of the items and the stress in Diablo’s expression, Santino is finally able to comprehend why the four are there. John seems to recognize the reason too, leaving only Dolores confused. Santino knows Dolores is an intelligent woman, but the sleep nauseated her into a dissociative state. The two don’t precisely desire telling Dolores that her parents (Santino found out, due to both age gaps and appearance, that Diablo was biologically Dolores’ father, unlike John. The fact depressed him subtly) weren’t indeed in a loving or even respectful relationship.

“You look tired,” John states bluntly, “you can sleep on the bench outside if you want to.” Dolores blinks, attempting to process his words before following them without a complaint. She stumbles out of the shop, leaving only John and Santino to help Diablo, who forgot to buy Elaine a birthday present.

“What does your mother like?” Santino questions, examining the multitude of options, settling with the fact that all of the clothes cannot be bought since there is a likelihood that they possess a variety of diseases. John looks away from Dolores’ resting figure outside and towards Santino, who is mulling over the matter of a present.

“I’m guessing Diablo has the same question,” John doesn’t mean to sound as bitter as he does, but when Santino doesn’t even flinch, he knows they both believe in his aggressive thought, “but she used to like antiques. Clocks, dishes, mirrors; she never uses them, it’s a decorative thing.”

Santino nods with a lost confoundedness on his features. He has never been within a thrift shop before; most of his belongings are bought from luxurious stores or gifted by those who wanted to form an alliance with him. John seems to know more of the location, however, as if he has been acquainted with it on numerous occasions. Santino assumes he has since there is still a blurred moment of John’s teenage life that he refuses to address, despite the fact that he once shared with Santino his experiences in the Marine Corps.

“I’ll be back,” John says vaguely, “I’ll be near the backroom if you need me.” Santino watches him disappear behind a rack of broken objects, taking the time to wander mindlessly. He does find some items of intrigue, such as a painting found in an old coffee shop and a few glass figurines of animals, the most captivating one being of a bird with opened wings. He considers purchasing it, but that would be something to remember Oklahoma by, and he would instead witness Viggo Tarasov rising from his grave than discern this moment of his life.

After several minutes, John returns with a rotary phone in his hands, the cord still being intact and surprisingly untangled. It has filth peering from its base due to being uncleansed for an extended period of time. However, it is distinguishable nonetheless. John is proud of himself, as shown by his curved lips and lowered eyelids. It is subtle but beautiful, and Santino becomes entranced with the contours of John’s face until Diablo’s footsteps are heard.

“Here Diablo. Mom would like this,” John curls his fingers when Diablo takes the rotary, rubbing the dusted tips of them, “or she wouldn’t. However, I don’t think you’d care.” Diablo glances at him and advises his son to keep quiet unless he wanted a bruise that wouldn’t heal too quickly. John stiffens at the remark but follows his commands, making Santino pray the party would go by incredibly fast. As Diablo pays for the phone, Santino and John awaken Dolores, who appears relieved from her nap, until Diablo comes into her peripherals. Then, she grimaces.

*

“Elaine will be back soon,” Diablo explains, “she's out with a friend. In the meantime, get everything ready; the food and whatnot.”

“You let her out with a friend?” John remarks sarcastically, receiving a stare from Diablo. The older man turns and leaves to relax, using the beers in the fridge as an aid. Dolores departs shortly afterwards, retiring to her shed instead of helping set up the limited decorations. John contemplates her sudden withdrawal and tells Santino he needs to speak with her. The Italian is then left by himself, looking forwards at a bleak household that bears absolutely no warmth.

John speeds his steps to meet Dolores, who is seated on the steps to her shed. Her locks are cascaded over her features, which John can assume are pensive and lacking any enthusiasm for the night. John examines her lithe figure for a moment, eyes trailing her curved spine as she huddles herself into a smaller woman. John asks softly if he can sit beside her, the response being Dolores shuffling sideways to allow for space. When John sits, the underpart of his legs are immediately covered with a mixture of rainwater and dirt, which ruin his pants for the evening. He ignores the thought and looks at Dolores.

“Johnny,” Dolores’ voice is shaken, and she seems prepared to sob, “I need you to be completely honest with me.”

John scrutinizes her broken frame and turns his lips into a thin line of stress, “okay.”

“You went to the police station with Diablo, right? Did he,” Dolores’ hands turn into fists as she tries to find the strength to proceed, “did he do something bad to you? Or did anybody tell you he did anything bad to them?” John bites his chapped lips; he hasn’t even found the time to take care of himself in the tiniest of ways. He thinks of his response. Dolores notices the hesitation and repeats that John told her that he would be truthful to her questions.

“He flirted with a teenage prisoner and punched me with a pistol. I’m fine though, and that girl got away before she got a charged pressed towards her.” John answers. Dolores takes a deep breath and looks to John, her cheeks abused by tears and her mouth twisted into a frown. John has never seen Dolores cry so heavily, but the image ingrains itself into his mind nonetheless.

“So it’s normal for him?”

“What’s normal?”

“He just flirts? He just thinks it’s okay to do these things to other women even if he and Elaine are married?” Dolores shudders at the thought, and the tears flow harder though no audible noises are heard. She gulps, and faces away from John, covering her mouth with a clutching hand.

“Dolores,” John reaches outwards and hold his sister’s shoulder, “what did you see?” Dolores shoves John’s hand off of her violently, mumbling something incoherent about not being touched. She raises a finger quickly then retracts it, trying to compose herself from wailing carelessly. She wipes her tears rapidly and pulls her hair behind her back, revealing her features more clearly.

“You need to keep this between us. I need to promise me- promise me! I’m sorry I yelled, but this is serious. I don’t know what’d happen to me if you told anybody. John,” the sudden change of his formal name instead of his nickname makes John worried, “last night, I was in the shed. So Diablo came in, and he was drunk and- shit! It’s my fault! I should’ve just went to bed! I shouldn’t have been working!” Dolores collapses and begins to wail loudly, trying to stifle her sobs as she starts to choke from the suppression. John knows what Dolores was going to say before she blamed herself, and he feels a wave of seething anger. It is overcome with a need to let out a quiet sound, something sad and pitiful.

“Dolores, I’ll kill him. I swear-” Dolores jerks her head upwards and shakes his head, interrupting him without reluctance.

“No. You can’t. He’ll know I told you and he’s stronger than you- I don’t care what you have to say! He punched you, John! Just think about what he’ll do to me!” John accepts the reality that Dolores is right; he cannot get any vengeance unless Dolores gets indirectly hurt or the entirety of Oklahoma tries to arrest him for murder.

“Fine,” John says hoarsely, defeated, “fine.”

They remain in silence until Dolores regains her strength to formulate a falsified smile and leaves John by his lonesome to imagine the days when Diablo wasn’t married to Elaine; when he didn’t want to suffocate his father personally. He takes a moment to enjoy the quiet, only the wind being heard in his ears, before following her inside.

*

The party starts when Elaine enters the door. John doesn’t consider it a party, anymore, since that title is strictly reserved for fun events. Diablo’s unwanted presence makes such an emotion barren. The food is excellent, however, which John considers a slight plus to the otherwise dreary night. Elaine appears happy from the momentary break from abuse; there are too many potential witnesses in the room for Diablo to summon the courage to hit her for coming home later than usual, which makes the two siblings delighted themselves. After the candles were blown (Diablo says some rude joke about her age and her wrinkles, something that makes John’s jaw clench from frustration), Elaine is seated on the living room couch as everyone presents their gifts.

John and Santino give the first present; it’s wrapped in newspaper since John doesn’t like the brightness of wrapping paper and its insanely high price. When Elaine opens it, she smiles sweetly and genuinely at the page of aged photographs, an action she has had yet to do in front of Santino. She looks younger as she gives her gratitude to John, tracing her fingertips over the faces of her children.

“When did you have the time to find these? I thought for sure you’d thrown them out.” Elaine has a fondness spread to her contours as she views the faded pictures.

John’s eyelids drop subtly in a restfulness and calmness as he says, “I wouldn’t do that. I like these pictures.” Santino cannot find any tell or twitch that John is lying and somehow that gives a sense of sadness to his words.

“I do too- oh! I remember this! Your father took this one,” Elaine forgets Diablo is in the room, creating a tense atmosphere, “we went down to that creek; do you still go there-”

“I have a gift too,” Diablo interrupts in such a way that wants to make Santino inappropriately laugh at how unexpected it is, “here.” Unceremoniously, Diablo passes his gift to Elaine, unwrapped and uncleaned. Elaine accepts it nonetheless, giving a compliment that everyone knows isn’t sincere. 

Dolores considers this offensive and mutters something, repeating herself once Diablo asks her to speak up, “He bought that today, Mom.”

“It’s lovely, regardless. Now, I’m very excited for what you made me.” Elaine tries to resolve the argument, but Dolores doesn’t want to immediately.

“It’s not, though. Nothing Diablo does is good,” Dolores continues, acting less compassionate than Santino has ever seen her, “he just ruins things and then blames everyone else. He just fucked up this family, and we all took it.”

“You should sit down-” Diablo begins with an aggressive undertone, placing a hand on Dolores’ forearm. She violently jerks herself away, applying a push to Diablo’s chest.

“Don’t touch me or I swear to God I’ll tell them everything,” Elaine winces, her expression similar to that of disappointment, “Mom, we need to talk. Not later, now.”

“Dolores, nobody wants to hear what you have to say,” Diablo states in an attempt to intimidate the woman, who decides she hasn’t got any more tolerance for her father’s actions. Without any warning, she says in a sinister tone,

“He touched me last night. And a year before that. And almost once a month when I was ten,” the room gets deathly silent at the remark, “I know you don’t want to hear it, but that’s the truth. If he did that to me, then I’m sure he did it to you, because he’s not a good person.” Dolores is visibly shaking as if a withstanding pressure if is finally taken away from her chest, letting her breathe again. Nobody says anything, processing the information. Elaine breaks this uncomfortable quietness by taking a deep breath and placing the rotary beside her.

“Dolores, we can talk about this later.” Santino has never heard anything so cold before, and he came from a bloodline that threatened to kill one another for power. John’s lips part prepared to defend Dolores, but she has enough strength to do it herself.

“What? Are you just going to sit there and do nothing? I just told you that your husband raped me and you’re just going to pretend this can be solved later?”

“Okay, fine,” Elaine turns to face Dolores, “we’ll talk now. Somehow I knew this would happen, but I didn’t say anything. Don’t give me that look, Dolores. My fending ignorance kept a roof over your head because Diablo would still be with me.”

“You,” Dolores looks like her throat collapsed, “you knew? And you did nothing?”

“Yes. However, at least in turn, you got food and a bed.”

“Wow,” Dolores fights her tears because she doesn’t want to seem sensitive, “you two deserve each other. You’re both fucked up. Keep getting beaten, or don’t. I don’t care about anything you do anymore, Elaine. You could choke, and I wouldn’t go to your funeral. I’m leaving, just... fuck you” With that, Dolores leaves through the door with a loud crash. John and Santino don’t hesitate to follow her,

“Dolores, are you okay?” Santino rushes out the doorway into the cold night’s air, rubbing his hands to produce a semblance of warmth. Dolores walks faster down the sidewalk, her head lowered as she begins to wail.

“Guys, leave me alone! I need to think for a second without anyone!” Dolores replies, her voice rough from crying. Santino and John halt their stride, watching Dolores’ figure blend into the ominous sky. The couple looks at each other, planning their next move carefully since the household is obviously not within their limits anymore.

“Henry’s?” John suggests.

“Okay.” Santino doesn’t have a choice.

*

When the two arrive at Henry’s doorstep (both are surprised that Henry actually has a house, though they later learn he is spreading his rent amongst three of his friends) and explain their situation, Henry only replies, “So, she finally stood up to him. Good for her, we all knew she would do it someday.”

“Do you have any idea where she might have went? And don’t say the creek because we’ve already checked.” Santino questions, causing Henry to reflect. The silence is amplified by the harsh winds outside which make Henry raise his eyebrows in realization.

“Dolores hates the cold. Wherever she is, she’ll be back soon. Probably here too, since Diablo’s isn’t exactly her go-to right now,” John doesn’t appreciate the tasteless joke and expresses his slight anger, forcing Henry to quiet himself. He speaks again, with an unexpectedly softer tone, “do you two need a place to crash for the night? My doors are open.”

“We would, but we’re leaving in a few hours. We just need to say goodbye to Dolores. I would hate to leave things on a bad note with her.” Santino explains with Henry’s response consisting of him questioning them about their favourite movies and snacks. It is a blatant attempt to lighten the mood, though it is still appreciated regardless. A momentary lapse of peacefulness would provide comfort to the dreary night and its couple, therefore the next few minutes are spent with John searching Henry’s movie collection for anything with nostalgia attached to it.

There is a period in which nothing feels terrible; it is spent watching a classic action movie trilogy, even if the sequels are awful and illicit inappropriate laughs. Henry, alongside his friends who had come back previously smelling of beer and regret, is sitting dangerously close to the television set on the floor, claiming that since John and Santino are guests, they are allowed the privileges of the sole couch. The room is dim enough to which Santino can comfortably rest his head on John’s shoulder without being seen easily; thus he does just that. It is a familiar feeling and one that has been barren from the week; complete comfort and lack of remorse.

However, the moment is over as soon as the two movie protagonists reveal their relationship to their friend and Henry’s landline rings.

Henry is dismissive and passes the responsibility to John, who answers the phone, abandoning Santino to his lonesome, “Hello?”

“Is this Henry Ross? I’m calling from the Mercy Hospital of Oklahoma City; you were Ms. Dolores’ emergency contact.” John immediately places the phone to his chest and orders Henry to turn the television off. He sets the device next to his ear again, mentally thanking Henry for ignoring his peers’ protests and shutting off the movie.

“I’m John Wick, her brother. What’s wrong? Is Dolores okay?” John asks, preparing for the worst possible reply. The female voice hesitates, before simply saying that Dolores was beaten a half hour before her residency, at which point she was also stabbed by an unknown assailant. John stops the conversation then, slamming the phone back onto its holder before telling Henry to drive him to the hospital Dolores is at, stumbling over his words due to a panic.

“I’m coming too,” Santino follows Henry as he meets with John, “she’s my friend.” Santino is told he can come for the benefit of Dolores through John’s shake, stumbled words. Henry says they can take his car, being interjected by his friend who claims it’s not rightfully his, and the group quickly leave the house, without dressing in the proper attire, and into the bitterness of the outside.

*

“Dolores. Where is she?” John mumbles breathlessly to the receptionist, having sprinted from the passenger seat to the unsteady warmth of the hospital. The male behind the desktop computer gives his figure a lazy scrutinization, almost entertained by the state in which John is in; disheveled and tired. To the normal civilization, John might look like a deranged homeless man. The thought would make him chuckle though the stressful situation overpowers the faltering desire to. Santino and Henry enter shortly afterwards, greeted with the sight of the male receptionist and John having a faintly heated argument.

Santino steps towards the two men and softly interrupts the receptionist from speaking, “Excuse me? John, it would be best if you sat down. I’ll handle this,” Santino places a tentative hand on John’s shoulder, lightly applying pressure with his fingertips, “go to the waiting room.” John accepts the commands blindly, finding the need to rest himself. The waiting room Henry guides him to smells like it has been bleached too often, and its occupants have an identical depressed demeanour, making John increasingly worried. However, he maintains his crumbling facade and sits beside one of the shorter residents, leaning his head backwards to touch the wall behind him. His seat is partially picked for a strategic reason; nobody could attack him without being seen, and he could easily defend against the teenage girl beside him.

“I’ll get you some coffee, dude,” Henry pats John’s shoulder, “you really need it.” John voices his gratitude for Henry and deeply sighs, trying to calm his nerves. The teenage girl beside him faces him with visible hesitation.

“You know Dolores?” John’s eyelids move upwards at the directed words and he nods, his gaze unmoving from the ceiling.

“Yes.” John doesn’t want to expose too much to the strangely known voice that he is confident he’s heard before.

“I’m so sorry,” the teenage girl shifts her glances away from John’s features, “when I found her, she looked really bad. Bruises and everything; I thought she was dead.” John is about to suggest the girl quiet herself, but when he views her contours, he recognizes her effortlessly.

“We’ve met before,” John says, subtly astonished that the strange, seemingly insignificant teenager is a constant of the journey. She nods.

“Yeah, you helped me escape the police station,” she jerks a hand forwards, “thanks, by the way. I don’t think I told you how much that meant to me.”

“You brought my sister here?” John questions, making the teenage girl nod her affirmation once more.

“I was walking, and I saw her on the ground, bloodied. I took her to the hospital and here I am, waiting for questioning on what I was doing tonight and why I’ve been previously seen with some gangs. But I knew this would happen, so I’m not that scared.” She recounts, lowering her head as she fumbles with her knuckles.

John processes what she had said before finally asking, “why did you bring her in if you knew you would get questioned?”

“Because,” she shrugs, “I should’ve been in jail a long time ago, and she should’ve died out there. But, the thing is, someone helped me avoid jail. Maybe this is kind of like my repayment for that- helping someone else go off the world’s tracks.”

“You deserve better,” John sincerely compliments because when he appeared as young as his newest colleague beside him, he was prostituting himself for money. She has the same petrified glint in her eyes than he did in that blurred time of his life, “a lot better.”

“I never got your name.” The teenager explains suddenly, extending her lithe hand. John takes it gently and shakes it, formalizing their acquaintanceship.

“John.”

“Girl. Don’t worry; it’s just a really stupid nickname my boyfriend gave me a while ago.” Girl’s joke actually, despite everything, makes John laugh quietly, beyond his forming tears and hatred for Oklahoma. She smiles and laughs through her abused throat too because sometimes happiness comes in sporadic waves that are better to be embraced than fought.

“Jonathan Anderson,” John often used different names and personas during situations that required information such as now, just in case, “Dolores is ready to see you.” As John stands, alerting Santino to walk towards him from the receptionist’s desk, Girl gives him a small wave. He responds with a small smile, waving back because children are perhaps his only weak spot; next solely to dogs.

The nurse guides him down several hallways filled with closed doors and other injured patients being cared for, halting in front of a slightly opened doorway. The nurse makes herself visible to Dolores by showing her face between the narrow crack, alerting her of her guests. The nurse gestures for them to walk inside, before leaving them in favour of more occupants of the hospital.

John steps inside the room first, seeing Dolores’ broken frame gently resting on the uncomfortable mattress. She is dressed in a standard gown, her skin littered with bruises and markings from the hardened ground she collided with and beatings she previously acquired. Her cheek has a large cut on it, and her beautiful eyes are squinted closed due to swelling, though her most notable wound is her hand’s, which comprises of a clean mark procured only from a dulled knife. John faces the wall beside him instead because he doesn’t want his , perhaps, last moments with Dolores to be spent memorizing her pitiful body. The room also looks so similar to the one John’s biological father slept in when his cancer became terminal.

“John,” Dolores’ voice speaks up, “it’s okay.”

That makes John cry; hard. He knows something will end terribly wrong because nothing ever seems to be fine in the end; he isn’t a man surrounded by happy conclusions. Dolores doesn’t seem shocked at John’s outburst; rather, she invites him to be beside her. Santino cannot help but feel his throat collapse, the saddening sight giving him an intense emotion between absolute depression and melancholy hatred.

“Everything will be fine, because... something just has to give. This will be the moment when everything will be resolved in a neat, little bow because too many bad things have happened for this to be one of them. You’ll see. I’ll be out of here in no time, and then I’ll go to New York and maybe I’ll sell my paintings like Santino always says I should.” Dolores coughs out an empty giggle at her optimistic outlook of the future.

“Maybe, Dolly, maybe.” John’s sudden use of Dolores’ nickname makes her tear up. It was invented one morning when the two were still children, sitting with blissed expressions by the creek. She was rather jealous of John having a nickname; one that everyone cared to use during school time or at formal events. To compensate and make his sister feel better, John gave her the appropriate name of ‘Dolly.’ It made her youthful, unblemished face brighten and thusly she was called Dolly by her peers. Somehow, it still makes her smile.

“And once I get out of here, I better be invited to the wedding. You two would look amazing in suits, I’m sure of it,” Dolores says, causing the partners’ to look at her with a shared surprised expression, “did you two really believe you had me fooled?”

John only continues to sob and shudders his response, “Y-You knew this entire time?”

“Just because Diablo and Elaine are ignorant, that doesn’t mean I am,” Dolores gently presses her hand against John's, wrapping her fingers protectively around it, “you didn’t need to lie to me. I fully support you both.”

“T-Thank you s-so much.” John stutters through his glassed eyes, the tears making it remarkably difficult to see properly.

“Now before I have to go through this whole lying-to-my-secretly-supportive-sibling nonsense,” Dolores manages to receive two different voices chuckling, “could I please have Ares’ number? I know it might be too late for me, but just hearing her name makes my heart beat fast.” John nods, finally allowing Santino to share Ares’ number to Dolores. He doesn’t ever want to forget the excited smile on her face as she writes down the digits carefully, making sure she doesn’t make a mistake.

“I’ll tell Ares once I get back to await your texts,” Santino says sweetly, making Dolores smile even more extensive. Before her mind can drift into unlikely futures of being married to a woman she barely even knows, she grounds herself into the reality that both John and Santino are beside her and certainly won’t leave the next morning.

“So,” Dolores begins, “who knew they liked the other first. My bet is on Johnny.” That begins the conversation on a positive note since John immediately gasps with a falsified betrayed expression and Santino laughs.

*

John awakes in the middle of the night since there is only moonlight darting through the window. Santino is resting unapologetically on his lap, having fallen from his previous position on his shoulder, and Dolores is sleeping calmly, probably dreaming about a strange city woman with an even stranger name. The American glances at their two peaceful figures, then at Dolores’ heart rate monitor, it’s rhythmic beeping reassuring John. He decides that in the morning, his vengeance will be set in the screams of Dolores’ perpetrators and hopefully their blood, entangled with that of Diablo’s. However, the soft snoring of Santino, a sound much more pleasant than the ones he has imagined, make him realize he still has several hours to do as he wishes.

Therefore, he rests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Four]  
> “Forse anche Dolores lo sentiva.” - “Perhaps even Dolores felt it.”  
> “Testa di cazzo.” - “Dickhead” I should use this more often- I’m only joking.
> 
> Small Detail(s):  
> During Dolores’ hospital scene, when she says “something just has to give” it is an indirect reference to the movie Something’s Gotta Give, in which Keanu Reeves stars as a doctor.  
> The movie John, Santino, Henry, and his entire gang watched was the Matrix (a good action movie that had relatively bad sequels, and two protagonists, or Neo and Trinity, confessing to a friend, or Morpheus.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of Rest Now (Fighting is Tomorrow's Worry); I wanted to thank everyone who gave a kudos, shared a comment, left a bookmark, or even all three. All of you guys were so nice and as sad as I am to end this fanfiction finally, I want to say this was an amazing experience. Thank you for supporting me; I truly loved every moment I spent writing this story and contributing to this community!

In the beginning sunlight of an Oklahoman morning, John awakes inside his sister’s hospital room with a seemingly simple plan of vengeance bred and fueled primarily from her injuries. Santino is still asleep; eyelids lowered softly in his slumber. He gently shakes Santino’s shoulder, receiving a mutter of distaste in response. The Italian waves a dismissive hand at his boyfriend and harshly rubs his face of fatigue, his hair messed by his awkward sleeping position; the loose strands of hair being perhaps the only signifier that Santino isn’t always a sleek leader of an incredulous gang. John doesn’t have these little signifiers; to the underworld, he will continuously be the Baba Yaga, and some feral side of John enjoys this. Fear provides the strongest of protections.

“If you must engage in a man-hunt for Dolores’ perpetrators,” Santino says because he already knows what John is thinking and isn’t afraid to give an offhanded opinion, “make sure you don’t leave any marks. In the meantime, I will create an alibi.”

“Thank you,” John replies, watching Dolores’ stomach rise and lower in her calmed state. It is better than observing her scars and gashes, which are still as muddling of her skin as they were the previous night, “do you need anything?”

Santino gently places a hand over Dolores’ less dignified, giving it a comforting squeeze, “proof that you strangled Diablo. A bloody badge could do.” John nods, confident of the command, then carefully raises from his chair. There is a moderate sound of wood scratching against the floorboards that awakens Dolores, who seems too weakened to formulate a proper sentence.

“I know I might regret asking this,” Dolores contemplates her next words, “would you mind getting some hospital food? If I’m going to stay here, I might as well get the whole experience.”

“Nonsense, Dolores. John will buy us some food from elsewhere,” Santino doesn’t listen to Dolores’ lighthearted pleas, “like that dinner you introduced us to.” John knows that Santino didn’t necessarily enjoy the food; it wasn’t a foreign cuisine or made uniquely. Therefore, seeing him compromise for the sake of bringing Dolores happiness is undoubtedly an endearing sight, one that makes John’s lips curve upwards in a subtlety he is prone to.

When he leaves to fulfill the sudden request, he passes the waiting room. The teenage rebel he finally conversed with last night is still there, finding comfort in resting her head on her shoulder. Her eyes are squinted open slightly; any small movement and her eyelids would meet. In her exhausted daze, she lifts her hand carefully and waves at John. John, who has been trained to show absolutely no emotion in any social setting lest he wants his vulnerabilities to be found and exploited, waves back tenderly.

He wishes his mind weren’t filled with the terrifying initial fears of yesterday, but it is. His thoughts loom alongside the rain puddles that the sun has yet to dry.

*  
As John waits for the diner to complete his order with only a cigarette as his proper company, he creates the perfect plan to ensure his murder has no fingerprints. Initially, he thinks of hurling Diablo’s body in the river; watching the man struggle to breathe as he slowly sunk beneath the surface of the water would be nowhere near justice, but it is a thought. As he begins to dwell on the possibilities, resourcefulness is what Winston once called his greatest strength, a familiar face emerges beside him; one that was last illuminated by the blurriness of a party with a particular Olivia Newton song.

John bites downwards on his cigarette for a second but shows no outward vulnerability aside from it. The man speaks, “My wound still hasn’t healed, jackass.”

“You fired a gun at me. We’re even.” John says remarkably quickly and with more aggression than he intends. He tilts his chin slightly, releasing the smoke in his mouth and onto the troublesome contours of his unwanted visitor. Through the veil, John can see anger plague the barely hidden features, something the diligent man is prepared to attend to. He removes his cigarette by dropping it to the pavement of the parking lot, watches it flicker alongside his last bit of composure, then turns entirely to the taller man.

“You should leave this town unless you’re looking to get your skull bashed in.” John has suffered worse threats, a majority of them being more than just words bred of hatred, so he isn’t necessarily intimidated by a singular man.

He is about to end the conversation civilly, but then he notices his bloodied knuckles which forces him to question, “Were you out last night?” The man gives a confused expression at the offhanded inquiry and scrutinizes John’s figure for any humor; there is nothing but seriousness and controlled, suppressed rage.

“Yeah. Some buddies of mine went out. We saw your sister,” John stiffens at that, awaiting the next, inevitable words, “we had a nice chat, of course. I am a gentleman after all, but she’s short and can’t quite run in her heels-” John comes to the conclusion that even if there are witnesses in this unpopular diner’s parking lot, ones that would testify before a judge, he should still punch this man’s already broken nose. Therefore, he does, with as much fierceness and energy as his tired frame can provide.

There is a pause; a momentary lapse of time in which the two could glance at each other before the fight. John has learned, through years of extensive training, that this exact pause is the perfect time to gain the advantage of a battle. He uses his adrenaline and punches again until he feels blood spread on his fingers from a gash he is quite certain he caused. He doesn’t allow himself to gaze at his work, a violent artistic masterpiece; he makes sure to be efficient and swift with his movements.

Before his adrenaline subsides, his victim is merely a corpse at his feet. He didn’t plan to act upon his vengeance so early, the sun is barely visible from the horizon, but the opportunity presented itself nonetheless. John disposes of the body quickly into the diner’s dumpster; the same one he and Santino kissed at on a previous night several days ago. That John was weak, however, too scared to finally stand to Diablo and the inhumane humans of Oklahoma. Yet motivation is a powerful force; one that is somehow dulling his fear.

He covers the body with the garbage already within the dumpster, and once noting that the corpse is buried deeply, retreats from the shadows to presume his day. He even acts like a normal civilian when he pays the teenage waitress, giving her a tip, knowing she definitely saw something. The woman accepts the compensation, telling John to have a good day.

*  
Dolores smiles when John returns to her hospital room, two plastic bags filled with greasy fast food in each of his broad hands. The simple curve of her lips is enough to take away John’s stress and replace it with the rarity of calmness. He passes the bags to Santino, who shifts through them to find everyone’s impromptu breakfast.

“ _Non sono mai stato più felice di vedere la tua faccia._ I thought I’d starve here.” Santino mutters, handing Dolores her food first. There is a complication with her raising her forearm to quickly, one that worries the couple but ends when she reassures them she is okay. It phases John; Dolores is the one bound to a hospital's uncomfortable mattress, yet she is still less petrified than both he and Santino individually. John admires that.

“I know you’re both leaving tonight,” Dolores addresses between bites of her burger, “and I’m sorry you guys had such a bad experience here- you don’t need to lie, Diablo and Elaine made everything uncomfortable. But, I just wanted to say, you guys made Oklahoma just a bit more bearable.”

John smiles and thanks Dolores, reaching out and holding her hand with a firm grip. Santino doesn’t want to cry, but it is heartbreaking to know that when they go, life will stay the same in Oklahoma, it may even become worse.

Elaine will still be dissociative, Henry will still be a gang member fighting to survive, and Dolores will still be deserving of happiness yet never receiving it; the only difference is that Diablo will be gone. Santino tells himself that perhaps that small change could trigger something more significant than one bastard’s death, it is the only way to control his tears.

John notices Santino’s edging meltdown in his peripherals and gently holds his hand. Dolores isn’t ignorant, she claimed that fact last night, and also understands that Santino isn’t quite reassured. Therefore, she changes the subject entirely, “Is New York as busy as Oklahoma? I heard that it's even busier- you can’t ever catch a break.” A conversation begins almost instantaneously, with Santino summoning the energy to rant about the traffic and noises. John chimes in with the pollution, and soon enough, he forgets his entire plan in favour of complaining about the rude, filthy people of New York. It is a pleasant distraction, if not severely needed.

After the impromptu meal is over, Dolores is asleep once more, the action of eating taking away a majority of her energy. This is when John decides to officially begin his manhunt, because any other word would sound too formal for the bloodshed his plan entailed and tells Santino to create an inarguable alibi.

He knows the Italian will think of something, an elaborate lie that nobody can dispute, devoid of evidence or any wrongdoing. Sometimes, John wonders if he should be frightened by this fact; he did once see Santino lie under oath to preserve one of his members falsified lawful integrity. However, John ignores this with the thought that he is glad Santino is on his side; especially today.

When they both leave the hospital, since speaking of such violent thoughts in front of ordinary civilians would cause suspicion, Santino questions, “How will you even find who hurt Dolores?” John explains his current situation, watching Santino nod absentmindedly, absorbing the information with a slight smile. The shorter male suppresses the urge to either laugh at the deserved justice or cry at the entirety of the trip, but his expression remains dormant nonetheless.

“Make the alibi; that’s all I need,” John says, and before he can make a suggestion that he knows wouldn’t benefit Santino, the Italian claims he merely needs a drive to a desolate barn on the outskirts of town, where he is almost certain Henry will be; presumably nursing a hangover with his friends while trying to pull off decorations from a party that ended too early. John follows the command because even if Santino uses a softened tone, everything he says is an order. The drive is spent in silence, each man quietly debating their next movements carefully. Somewhere along the ride, their hands intertwined in a moment of solitude. Santino misses the warmth of John’s palm.

When they approach the barn, John greets Henry, who is rubbing his forehead in a disgruntled manner, and he can see Santino’s disgust at his acquaintance’s disheveled figure. Henry yawns and asks, “Do you two want to help clean the barn? Me and the gang are still pretty far from getting everything down.”

“John needs to get souvenirs for some friends back in New York,” Santino almost believes himself, “but I’ll help.” Henry shrugs, mumbling something about being friends and owing a favour. As Henry leaves, Santino quickly settles a hand on John’s forearm, squeezing it as though to wish him good luck wordlessly. Perhaps, he wants to tell John something sentimental but can’t quite do such a thing. John doesn’t dwell on the fact; he only gets into his Mustang and drives off to face the corruption of Oklahoma.

When Santino is left alone, he pretends that everything will be okay, even when he knows, instrinctly, that nothing ever is.

*  
John is glad shadows darken the alleyway he is in; otherwise, he would be spotted easily. Digging a corpse out of a dumpster isn’t necessarily unsuspicious, after all. When he manages to drag the male’s filthy body onto the ground, he slides it further into the darkness, inspecting its damaged frame. The face is already beaten enough to be unidentifiable, so he moves downwards, pulling his shirt upwards to search for any tattoos or marks to show gang affiliation. Still, there is nothing essential or incriminating, just abused flesh and fresh blood.

Then, John notices the ink over his left palm. He pauses, using more force than required to when he examines it. It is the marking of a bear and, by the appearance, it is within an action stance, prepared to pounce on its prey. John is certain he has seen the tattoo, but he isn’t quite sure why it seems so familiar. He takes a photograph of it with his phone, debating if he should send it to either Santino or Ares.

Santino definitely knows more about gangs, his entire family was based upon them, but if Henry were to see the picture accidentally, his whole plan would be halted. Therefore, Ares receives the image. He awaits her response, spending the passing minutes applying pressure to the man’s body, bruising it even further; he has no reason to, aside from pure, calculated aggression. Finally, Ares replies.

Ares (8:23 AM): Tarasov Mob; I didn’t know they had a branch in Oklahoma. I can come down and clean up the rest of your mess if you want.

John (8:24 AM): I’m fine. Just get the house ready for tomorrow night.

Ares (8:24 AM): Don’t waste bullets, shoot for the head.

Before John can respond to the seemingly abrupt message, Ares’ status changes to being offline. He takes her advice regardless, searching the corpse once more for a cellphone with any critical contacts. He finds the small device, buried deep within a ragged, cheaply-sewn jeans pocket, and once more hides the body within the garbage and filth from Oklahoman residents.

*  
Santino’s hands are tightly gripping a broomstick, absentmindedly swiping at an unknown stain clinging to the wooden floorboards of the barn. It is radiating a disgusting scent, which Santino presumes is expired beer; he eventually stops his attempts to clean the dried puddle, instead tasking one of Henry’s friends with the challenge. He is almost reminded of his life back in New York; he holds a certain terrifying merit amongst the civilized underworld which wordlessly gives him the ability to command anybody into doing laborious tasks. Somehow, he doesn’t feel the same surge of intimidating power, perhaps because exhaustion bred from fear and anger has become his friend, overwhelming his other emotions.

He leaves the unbearable heat of the barn in favour of the chilled outside, hiding the bottom of his chin into his dark jacket’s collar to warm himself. He sits beside a tall, unnaturally pale man who is needlessly bickering with his shorter counterpart, and decides to entertain himself by listening to their conversation; he knows, conventionally and at its core, eavesdropping is wrongful, but years of being observant of the soiled lives of assassins prove otherwise.

“I’m just sayin’, when I got the news, I knew it was her dad! He’s a crummy guy,” The paler man shouts, waving the colorful decorations in his palms to emphasise his words. His friend sighs, claiming he is delusional and that without any proper facts, nobody can be seen as guilty. This only increases the intensity of the dispute, until the man crosses his arms over his broad torso in irritation, “so you honestly think Diablo’s innocent in all this?” That makes Santino enamoured with conversation thoroughly, removing his partial attention from the bright, freeing horizon to focus on the two companions.

“No, ‘course not! All I’m saying is he wouldn’t be the only one involved; hell, this might just be his goons going off on their own!” The southern man spits from his aggression, which is when Santino joins the discussion. His sudden entrance creates a unified expression of confusion between the divided couple.

“Diablo has a gang?” Santino questions, causing the taller man to shrug and pick nonchalantly at the deflated balloons in his hands.

“You writin’ a book or somethin’,” The man asks with a defensive rudeness. Santino calmly says his curiosity has merely consumed him, causing the man to laugh at the wording but continue nonetheless ungraciously, “it’s not his; some guy gave it to him. Said him being the chief of police would be beneficial and whatnot. But that’s just a rumor the boss spread to make his time in jail more interestin’.”

His colleague roughly shoves his elbow in between his ribs, causing the man to swear painfully underneath his breath, “My buddy’s telling it all wrong. You want the real story, talk to Henry. He has a hard-on for proving Diablo’s a bad guy; it’s not like we need much persuadin’ if you ask me.” Santino thanks the two men, leaving them to proceed their heated fight. He spends several minutes, aimlessly searching for Henry and finding him near the forestry surrounding the barn. He is picking up used plastic cups, each of them vandalized with vulgar writings, from the wet ground, his head lowered in an uncharacteristic sadness.

When Santino quietly greets him, Henry’s head perks up and he resumes his familiar, yet clearly forged, happiness, “What’s up, Sonny?” Santino has never enjoyed nicknames, especially when they were used in a condescending tone to anger him, the main perpetrator of this being Gianna. They made him seem insignificant like he was still a child in private school who wouldn’t speak when he was yelled at by a particularly neglectful mother. But Henry is different; he uses the nickname in a friendly manner, one that makes Santino forget the state of the world for a brief second.

“I was speaking with two of your men, and they claimed you knew a lot about Diablo’s syndicate,” Henry’s smile falters, “I was hoping you could prove their words.”

“It’s not far-fetched, right? To think Diablo has a gang,” Santino shakes his head, watching Henry’s hand pause above a cup, “he’s already done so many bad things, to Dolly, to Johnny. Hell, him having a gang doesn’t even seem that evil, come to think of it.”

“You know about what he did to Dolores and John?” Santino asks, and Henry scoffs. He explains Dolores confided in him for years, something she could never do with Elaine. She was vocal solely because she was terrified that if Diablo were to become so violent that inevitably he would shoot her, she would at least have somebody looking for her. Santino presses further and inquires about Diablo’s cruelty towards John, receiving a burst of laughter devoid of Henry’ previous cheerfulness. Perhaps he never had any to begin with.

“I’m surprised Johnny hasn’t killed him yet,” Henry finally grasps his fingers around the cup, “that bastard’s a true devil. Did he ever tell you about the time he broke Johnny’s wrist? Caught him kissing some guy from a few streets down- he told you different? ‘Course he would. When Johnny came sobbing to me, his hand was facing the wrong way. Not to mention he tried to burn all of John’s photographs of his dad; he couldn’t even manage to light up one. Johnny shoved them in a scrapbook and took them off to the military with him. I don’t know where that scrapbook is but if it’s away from that bastard, good.”

“Why doesn’t he like John’s dad?” Santino asks.

Henry takes a deep breath, and the cup within his clutching hand cracks, “Johnny’s dad was good. Simple as that. He was the perfect dad. Never raised his voice or cussed or nothing. And Diablo didn’t like that, still doesn’t. He calls that man a coward, calls him too weak to stay alive in the war. And that strikes a nerve in your friend, and why wouldn’t it? So Diablo took to calling him Wick. Just to remind Johnny that he’s like his dad; weak.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Santino answers genuinely, his throat feeling collapsed.

“I just want to say,” Henry turns to face him, revealing his tearful eyes and soddened cheeks, “if Johnny does go off the deep end and decides to kill Diablo, I’ll have his back.” Santino gives a quivering smile and kneels beside Henry, helping him pick up the discarded plastic cups.

Then, Henry says a joke that, even though it is told with a shaking voice and isn’t funny, makes Santino laugh.

*  
John ignores the fingernails scratching into his exposed arms as he holds his newest victim under the filthy water overflowing from the kitchen sink. His blemished skin has light, thin trails of rose-tinted marks, though he refuses to acknowledge the pain as his fingers press downwards onto the drowning man’s jugular. The motions of scraping nails begin to relax until the hands eventually stop entirely. Then, after a moment of silence echoing through the unkempt kitchen, John clasps his fingers through the man’s lengthy, darkened hair and uses his strength to pull the man above the surface of the water. His weeping eyes open once more and his lips widely part as he begins gasping for air.

“Talk.” John’s intimidating tone would make any underpaid criminal follow his command, though this particular man, whose face is already littered with bruises and gashes, doesn’t. He smiles through his bloodied nose instead, his hands grasping the edges of the metallic sink in preparation for John’s next move.

“What if I don’t want to?” John doesn’t humor him; rather, he forces his head back underneath the water without warning. He lifts the man again and observes his injured, soaked features, wondering how a person of his position could still manage to possess any form of dignity.

“Stay silent, and I’ll keep your head underwater.” John threatens, causing the man to gnaw at his chapped lips in contemplation. He chokes up another batch of tap water, wiping at his tears with his fingertips.

Finally, with slight hesitation, he confesses with a hoarse voice, “We beat her up, but we didn’t have anything personal against her. Our boss made us do it, said it would get back at you. That’s all I know, I swear!” John stiffens his clutching fingers, his mouth beginning to shiver from an uncontrollable rage. Through his angered state, he asks who his superior is; there is no shock coursing through John as the man claims it is the corrupt chief of police, the poor girl’s father. Diablo.

John releases the man from his clenching hand, giving him a semblance of safety. Then, the American drives his fist into the man’s stomach, ignoring the numbness consuming his knuckles. This causes the man to suppress the urge to vomit, which he fails at, and collapse onto the dirty floor of his trailer. As he attempts to regain his composure, this struggle highlighted by his shallow breaths and rapidly moving palms, John grabs a stray fork from beside him. He lifts it upwards and allows his anger to motivate him into lowering the sharp utensil into skin, terrorizing it beyond recognition.

He leaves through the backdoor of the trailer, squinting as the sunlight radiates onto him. The warmth is reassuring as he sits on a splintering step that leads to the trailer, breathing deeply as he observes the peacefulness of Oklahoma’s scenery. He doesn’t spend too long calming himself down, and stands upright once more, not bothering even to wipe his besmirched hands onto his pants. He keeps his gaze lowered as he walks towards his father’s police station, attempting to remain away from busy streets or crowded areas, though it is a weekday in Oklahoma, meaning this isn’t necessarily difficult.

When he does arrive at the station’s vacant parking lot, he notices a single car belonging to his father. His mind fills with vengeful thoughts of acts to do upon the vehicle, though he isn’t a menacing teenager anymore, and his determination to end his father’s tyranny preservers. Besides, if he did touch the car, it would only provide evidence in the case file that would inevitably open about the murder of Diablo.

John enters the emptied station quietly, though the distinct sound of his shoes hitting the cleaned tiles resound across the area. He hears the door click faintly behind him, the noise seeming louder than it indeed is. His fists tighten until there is a dull, white colour coating the surrounding skin from the pressure. He realizes that this moment is when he finally confronts Diablo; for Dolores, for Elaine, for everybody who ever felt his leering glances or corrupt mindset.

He steps past the available breakroom, the silent desks, and the cells; no wailing teenage girl is occupying them. Then, he reaches his father’s office. He takes a deep breath, then knocks on the door several times. There is a noise emerging from beyond the door, one of rushed movements; then there is a hushed stillness.

Diablo opens the door before John can think about retreating, “Wick, why are you here? I thought I banned your ass from stepping inside the police station; do you want to get punished?” John doesn’t reply. Instead, he shoves Diablo backwards. The unexpected force causes Diablo to fall, hitting his head on the edge of his desk. John uses the time to grab a pencil from Diablo’s desk, finding one that has been recently sharpened. He is prepared to stab Diablo, but the insensitive man has already regained his footing and grabs John’s arm, tightening his grip as he pulls harshly onto it, creating an immense cracking noise. John quickly attempts moving his arm, glad that it isn’t dislodged from its socket. Diablo then pushes him to the ground and holds his wrists above his head, forcing him to drop the pencil in his possession.

“Knew you were weak. But you shouldn’t feel too bad, after all, I do this to your mom all the time,” Diablo insults as John tries to loosen his grip, “I have to congratulate you, though; you honestly tried to get back at me.”

John feels the unfamiliarity of tears prickling the corners of his eyes, recollecting the memories of when he was still a worried teenager that couldn’t hold himself in a fight. He feels the circulation to his hands being interrupted as he slowly loses his consciousness from fear, trying to find some way to escape. The situation is recognizable to him; his father always used to physically abuse him, so why is he so afraid now? Perhaps he feels exhausted, knowing that once he dies (because why would Diablo just let him free?), nobody will dare to avenge him. Then, suddenly, he remembers.

It was after his father had broken his wrist for kissing the boy near his house; he was sobbing as his father blocked the doorway, preventing him from exit. John used his overlooked knee and forcefully lodged it into his father’s stomach, eliciting a yell from the man and an escape.

John neglects his previous tears, disregards his wrists, and creates a distraction by letting out several sobs to prove his pain. Just as Diablo parts his lips to remark one final taunt, John jerks his knee upwards. His father shouts an obscenity, releasing his unbroken wrists. John uses this moment to grab the pencil, fighting the spreading paralysis of his hands, and stab it through the side of Diablo’s neck. The officer widens his eyes in surprise, grasping at the pencil as he struggles to breathe. A crimson liquid begins to spill from his trembling lips; John focuses on standing instead of helping him. Roughly, John pulls his father upright and seats him into his office chair.

John wraps his hands around Diablo’s throat, pressing his fingers downwards as his father speaks, “Don’t you feel proud, Wick? You managed to kill your old man… I bet you feel great right about now. Can’t take back the years of what I put your sister and your mother through, though.” That makes John pause, remove his fingers, and begin to exit the office.

Before Diablo can feel as though he has completely devastated John, he says, “You’re right. It can’t. But, at least I can say this; even as a teenager, I knew. I knew that my dad was everything that you never could be.”

“John…” Diablo struggles out, his eyes now filled with a sudden fear at losing his power. John grabs his father’s badge, blemished by his running blood, and rips it forcefully off of his shirt.

Before John closes the office door he utters, slow and deliberate, “It’s Wick.” He can only hear Diablo’s wretched screams in his final moments.

*  
“Hey Johnny, your friend here really helped us clean up.” Henry greets John as he approaches his Mustang, an arm wrapped around Santino’s shoulders. The Italian looks at John, his face covered by a noticeable seriousness that Henry doesn’t possess. John reassures him with a subtle nod, his thin lips pressing together in a straining line. Santino sighs from relief underneath the setting sun, retreating into the horizon as the day comes to a beautiful conclusion. Henry is partially occupied at settling a dispute between two of his colleagues; therefore he simply pats Santino’s shoulder and halfheartedly wishes the couple safe travels, though he uses much less formality. John gives a single wave of the palm, then turns to reenter his unscathed car. When Santino seats himself beside John, he gently places his hand onto his boyfriend’s and whispers his gratitude, not attempting to suppress the smile inching across his lips as John gives him Diablo’s bloodied badge.

As John starts the engine, his eyes calmly looking into the neverending distance, he explains, “We’ll need to burn our luggage; it has our fingerprints.” Santino nods, producing his phone from his pocket and texting somebody unknown.

“I doubt you want to face your mother now. But I know a sicario who wouldn’t mind. _Non preoccuparti_ , he won’t hurt her,” Santino eases John’s confusion, “do you want to visit Dolores once more before we leave?”

John releases a breath of sadness, shaking his head, “No, it’s better to cut ties now. When news gets to her, she’ll know it was me and who knows if she would forgive me?” Santino bites his tongue and stays quiet despite his racing thoughts, though he stops once John begins to drive. Perhaps, John is too afraid to face his weakened, rotting sister, knowing that in her state, she might never recover. Perhaps, he doesn’t want to stay in Oklahoma for a moment longer, no matter the reason. Or, perhaps, this is just for the better.

Regardless, within a few minutes, Santino is asleep from his consuming exhaustion. As his shallow snores fill the emptiness of the car, John views the sign reminding him he is leaving Oklahoma, and his entire past, behind him.

*  
The following night, when John pulls into the familiar driveway of his house, he notices the tree in his yard that he previously found withering is now filled with an array of broad, radiant green leaves. He has forgotten about Aurelio’s duties of watering his plants, yet the surprise is welcoming nonetheless. The American gently wakes Santino, making it a certainty that he isn’t too harsh with his movements. His boyfriend awakes with a startled jump, and as a tinge of red embarrassment begins to set over his features, he wipes the drool steadily emerging from his mouth. They step outside of the Mustang together, Santino feeling a slight gust of wind that seems similar yet different to the one in Oklahoma. In front of the closed entrance door of the home, he sees three individuals, each of them giving their own versions of a welcoming wave.

“Welcome home, guys! _Como estuvo el viaje?_ ” Aurelio’s excited voice yells, his hand frantically waving to his friends. John sighs, deciding to ignore the question. Jimmy steps towards the vehicle, his dusted plaid shirt following the wind as he offers to carry the luggage. Santino responds with an effortless lie, claiming they lost their bags at a polluted gas station filled with deceitful people. Jimmy believes him, instead asking how John’s parents were.

“They were,” Santino’s hands raise, his fingers moving as he thinks of a word, “lovely.” Only he understands John’s slight scoff.

As the two men approach the house, Aurelio continues rambling about the difficulties of watering the planets and his marriage. Jimmy sets a hand on his shoulder, attempting to give John and Santino a moment of peace from the talkative mechanic. Aurelio gives a dismissive hand and concludes his talk by saying, “Anyways, Ares actually kept your dog from dying.” Ares’ fist playfully collides with Aurelio’s shoulder then, causing the man to hunch over in falsified pain exaggeratingly.

Ares passes the leash in her palm to John and begins to sign her enjoyment of watching the female dog. However, she advises John to give her a proper name. John looks downwards to the pit bull, seeing a pair of tired teenage eyes staring upwards at him, “Girl, that’s her name.”

Santino and Ares share a bewildered look as John takes off Girl’s collar, brushing his fingers through the freed fur. As he enters his household, Santino murmurs, “He never was one with words.” Ares begins to laugh, and once she knows nobody is watching, quickly halts herself. She explains she will burn the luggage within a day and try to avoid contact with Elaine at all costs. Santino nods, thanking her for her loyalty.

As the three friends say their goodbyes and leave for their own houses, aside from Ares. Instead, she goes to her sleek car, beginning the long drive towards Oklahoma, the state that holds a dissociative mother and her daughter, sobbing that her brother never visited her before he left, yet not holding any genuine malice.

In the newfound silence of the house, Santino sets himself onto the couch, sinking into its comfortable cushions as he remembers its soft feeling underneath his touch. John blankly states he needs to show Santino something important, hidden within the attic. Intrigued, Santino sits upright, awaiting the reveal while unenthusiastically petting Girl’s short, gray hairs. John’s footsteps feel heavy as he ascends the staircase, cautiously entering the attic as to not create any form of noise. He navigates through the dusty area, using his hands to search through the darkness.

He returns to Santino, his eyebrows furrowed in nervousness and his arms modestly shaking around the thick scrapbook in them. The Italian stays silent, shuffling as to allow John an adequate amount of space beside him. He observes John’s figure as he quietly sits beside him, his back curled slightly as he opens the book on his lap. He gestures to one of the faded pictures, a grainy texture of browns filtering the image.

“That’s my dad.” And the words are small and almost seem insignificant, but Santino knows they are precisely the opposite. This is the moment in which John is finally accepting everything that has happened in his past. It might even be the moment where John decides to move past the trauma and abuse to create a better life for himself; one where his family is comprised of a mafia leader, his intimidating bodyguard, and a pit bull commemorating a teenager that helped save his sister.

“He looks just like you.” Santino compliments, resting his head on John’s shoulder, letting his fingers aimlessly drift over the photograph. John presses a kiss softly on Santino’s forehead as Girl leaps onto the couch, placing her jaw onto John’s thigh as slumber gradually slows the pacing of her leisurely breaths. They stay awake for the entire night, John discussing the pictures in detail and Santino listening to him without any input.

When the light of tomorrow washes over New York, cleansing the hostility of the several previous mornings, John realizes that his road to recovery will still take months, if not years, to achieve.

But as Santino gently intertwines their fingers together, he knows that he is not worried anymore. He is prepared to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter Five]  
> “Non sono mai stato più felice di vedere la tua faccia.” - “I’ve never been happier to see your face.”  
> “Sicario.” - “Hitman”  
> “Non preoccuparti.” - “Don’t worry.”  
> “¿Como estuvo el viaje?” - “How was the trip?”
> 
> Small Detail(s):  
> Diablo dying at the hands of a pencil is a reference to the movies, in which John is said to have killed three men with a pencil.


End file.
